


Lovebearing Storm

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Actions and their consequences, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad First Impressions, Descriptions of violent/abusive past, Developing Relationships, F/M, Gen, Life aboard the Flying Dutchman, Mermaids, Reconciliation, The Bosun and his whip, Two dueling personalities, Unlikely Romances, Worst Second Impressions, character origins, characters trying to find their way in life, children of Calypso, emotional breakdowns, non-sexual nudity, reluctant gratitude, rocky beginnings, semi-graphic depictions of violence, semi-graphic descriptions of rape, storms at sea, the scar tissue of emotional damage, unexpected comfort, vulgarity for purposes of making a point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-18 00:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: Emotion is weakness — we cannot be rid of it. Desire is reality — we cannot escape it. Love is a storm — we cannot fight it. (Originally posted on ff.net)





	1. Will Ye Serve?

**Author's Note:**

> My first contribution to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, posted a LONG time ago. I greatly enjoyed this story, and my original character Lena Jones, so I decided to give it an editing makeover and post it here on Archive. More tags will probably be added as the chapters go.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing - characters, events, etc. - related to the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. Lena Jones is my original creation, and her story is her own. Thank you and enjoy. :)

The name of the ship is hardly new to her ears. From earliest recollections, she recalls the stories. Old tales, passed down from captain to sailor, from grandfather to father to son: rumors of the plague ship, of the vessel which brings only terror and damnation to ship and sailor alike.

It is the stuff of nightmares. It is spawn of the darkest, coldest depths of hell. The captain is cursed, and the crew with him.

Even now, she hears the voice. _His_ voice, the Master's voice: a low voice, gravelly and spoken with a throat rasped by years of inhaling thick clouds of grey smoke, slurred by a tongue scarred and mutilated after an encounter with the East India Trading Company, some fifteen years prior. It is a hated voice. 

In the uneasy silence around her, memories churn forward. Her memory is an infrequent companion and constant enemy, forcing her to remember when there are no other thoughts to occupy her time. And so, she remembers. She remembers the faces: the skin weather-beaten and worn from harsh winds; thick, jagged scars of battles fought and victories won; smears of dirt permanently absorbed into the natural coppery hue of flesh. But more than it all, she remembers sounds. She remembers the scrape of metal against metal, the soft gasps of steam rising through floorboards, the hiss of leather slithering from a man’s waist. And smells—there are always smells—of sulfur of cannons and gunpowder, of mold mixing with steam in the bathhouses. Perhaps most prominent of all, she remembers the musk of a man, and with it, the salt of sweat on skin.

Now she is surrounded by different sounds, different smells; all of them new to her senses, and the unfamiliarity is welcomed with open arms. The scent of salt is stronger now, emitted by flesh completely saturated, perhaps down to the very cells, in sea water. It will hardly be surprising if such is true of this crew: so engulfed by the sea that each and every one of them bears its markings. Barnacles, shells, and small forms of life latched into the skin; strange appendages, mutations of the body which have transformed each and every one of them into the cursed and monstrous beings they are rumored to be.

Pale eyes lift from this broken and splintered deck she's been kneeling on for the last hour. Her shins are protesting, her arms ache, and there’s a burn growing more prominent around her wrists from where ropes are holding them in place. But physical discomfort, while hardly a friend, is a familiar presence in her life. When it comes, she responds with distraction. Fixation on a little notch in the wall; a cracked ceiling; distant sounds in the background. Anything. Everything.

The deck is open, illuminated poorly by lanterns, so she can’t look for a defect in the foundations. Her neck hurts too much to examine the night sky. So she reluctantly returns to memory’s waiting grasp.

There was no warning. There was only a sudden explosion of wood and small debris shattered throughout the cabin; large, jagged chunks of the walls thrown in every direction. Then, a sharp pain in her upper arm: shards of glass from a demolished lantern piercing through flesh. Finally, silence, and a pronounced weight trapping her between corpse and wooden planks. A steady and unchecked spreading of liquid heat followed, originating at her collarbone and streaking down exposed flesh. What seemed hours of trying to wriggle her way free followed, trying without success to escape from a prison of dead weight and cold flesh. And then—

—She knows that man.

He is of a solid build, albeit perhaps a bit stocky. She supposes at one time he had long hair escaping from beneath his hat, but now there are only heavy strands of shells hanging to his shoulders. The pair of chain-shot he carried in hand earlier—he used both to break down the door, to the captain’s quarters—are now latched to his belt. The iron drags along his thighs; lolls quietly with each shuffling step.

Two of the Master’s crew (she assumes they are the only fellow survivors) were dredged up earlier from the ship’s depths; now they are forced to their knees beside her. She becomes aware of erratic, sniveling gasps emitting from the man on her left. The other, on her right, maintains a façade of determination, of resilience and defiance. She isn’t fooled. This display of strength will be shattered all too easily; she can see it in the way his eyes twitch and avoid lingering on the crewmen for too long.

"You stay close and keep quiet, you hear?" this man hises in her ear. She first battles a shudder of disgust, then an urge to lash out against him, "Stay silent, girl. If you don't—"

"Quiet, maggot!" the command is followed by a sharp blow to the face, delivered by one of the _Dutchman_ 's crew, and once again she fights an urge: the urge to smile, to derive satisfaction from the punishment. But she mustn’t, mustn’t let it show, so her eyes only blink and fall away, this time to the stained folds of her dress and the originating rust-red smears across her skin. All too aware of the eyes lingering shamelessly upon her flesh, stark white even in the flickering glow of lanterns and bare from the waist up. She shifts, trying to shield herself from leering eyes. Behind her, both wrists twist in the coarse rope binding her hands, trying to find any weakness in the knot. There is none; the crewman who bound her knew what he was doing.

_Thunk!_ A sharp noise echoes across a near-silent deck; a softer tone follows, then— _thunk!_ Footsteps. Her eyes dare not look, and so her ears compensate. _Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ The steps grow louder, draw closer, one after the other. _Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ Now, silence: the forward stride ceases, and instead she hears something scrape against the battered planks. Silence, once more.

A voice speaks from the far right; she doesn’t recognize it as being among the barrage of ragged tones heard earlier, when the _Dutchman_ ’s crew swarmed the Master’s ship. It is definitely a man’s voice, but bears a cruel hiss around each word, enough to bring into question the speaker’s humanity. “Three still alive.” The man, if he really is, states to persons unknown. His tone carries no regard for those dead or alive.

_Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ _Thunk!_ —— Three steps forward, and now she sees the legs (loosely termed) of the new arrival on board. The limbs shift, though they do not yet move closer. Finally, he (she can only assume, with limited vision, it is indeed a man speaking) proceeds to address those on bended knee. He speaks with the authority of a captain, in a tone heavily accented. She has heard this particular accent only once, maybe twice, before: sailors run afoul of the Master’s shores, pleading for mercy and finding none.

This voice is not that of a man who pleads or makes implorations for mercy. This is the voice of a man who listens to the whimpering, the prostrate, and is moved neither by compassion or pity.

"Who among you can be named captain?"

To her left, whimpers and sobs resurface with a choked sound; to her right, the other man begins to quiver. The façade has ended, crumbled like dust. _Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ “I _said_ , who among you can be named as captain?”

He must be leaning to the man on her left, because the sniveling sobs grow louder, nearly shrill like a terrified child. At the urging of cramping muscles in her neck, she finally defies better judgment and lifts her eyes to look upon this face. She needs no further explanation as to why even the most bloodthirsty pirates of the seas fear this face, and the mere mention of its bearer. Sans the sharp glint of pale eyes and a mouth, lipless but still distinctly formed, this face carries no traces of humanity: tentacles hang, overlapping, writhing lazily of their own accord, as a strange beard. His skin looks cold, slick, wet; even with relative proximity, he smells strongly of salt and ocean rot.

"The captain has moved on, sir."

Her voice is strong enough to get his attention, yes, but it’s the sound of a feminine voice among a gathering of men which truly warrants notice. She is not surprised when his pale gaze flashes her direction, but is a little intrigued when he does not immediately scold her for speaking without permission. _Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ “You said what, now?”

“The captain has moved on, sir.” She repeats, willing her voice to not shake, and meets his inquiring eye with only a little hesitation. “You will find his body in the cabin, or you could just as well look at my clothes and judge for yourself if he might still be alive.”

It confuses her, momentarily, when he does indeed take a close inspection of her ruined clothes but does not let the eye stray over her naked flesh. Then she thinks this captain to be of a different breed than the Master: one who isn’t distracted by matters of the flesh. He seems satisfied with her explanation, offered in rust-red stains on fabric, and nods—more to himself than her—before returning to address the quivering wreck of humanity to her left. Under renewed scrutiny, the man dissolves into complete incoherency. Between aching arms, the flush of indignation at being ogled (it’s not the first time, but it never gets any more bearable to suffer), and the crewmate’s sniveling sobs grating her nerves…she’ll blame all of the above on the utterly reckless nature of her next action.

“If it pleases you, sir,” she says, determinedly staring straight ahead lest she make eye contact and lose her nerve entirely, “could one of your crew please untie my hands? I would like to compose myself.”

The captain blinks, twice, and looks at her once more. If he’s displeased with her brash request, there is no trace of it in his expression. “There be no need to stand on ceremony or impress my crew, young miss.” He says, but his tone does not outright dismiss her request and she’ll take what encouragement she can get.

“Though I may not be a lady, sir,” she answers, “I would like to present myself with the decency of one, whether for your purposes or for the afterlife.”

Something that nearly passes as a smile curves his mouth. “Aren’t you a polite little wench?” he notes; a short gesture from his hand follows—one finger is completely replaced by a thick, winding tentacle—and a crewman shuffles forward, blade in hand. It’s not the one who originally bound her hands; this one shoulders a shell encasing half his skull, and is thoroughly adorned with barnacles. He crouches behind her, and the rope is slit with a soft gasp of sound. It is a temptation to show relief and rub the burns from her wrists, but her freedom is a gracious privilege and she knows better than to waste it.

This dress is truly ruined, and there is a private distaste to reassembling the bodice with the feel of dried blood beneath her fingertips. Still, she does what must be done, then returns both hands to her lap. “Thank you, sir.”

He stands before her once again, swaying slightly on the left leg. In shifting shadows, she can’t see too much in the way of details, but what she can’t see, she hears. Namely, the creak of a claw: the one replacing his hand and extending up into the forearm, where any further deformities are cloaked by ragged scraps of fabric.

“On your feet, lass.” He instructs, the ring of authority in his voice woven with a sure confidence she won’t disobey. “Let’s have a proper look at you.”

She has better sense than to outright disobey, but hesitation does come at his command for more…practical reasons. Far be it for her, a girl of thirteen, to criticize a captain of his reputation, but the timing of her Master’s death came at an inopportune moment, quite literally in _en media res_ , and she’s been pinned beneath his rotting corpse for hours. Her physical condition is…delicate, and she manages to demonstrate as much by swaying dangerously before she’s even fully erect.

A hand takes hold of her arm; instinct prompts a violent jerk and a glare from wide, startled eyes. She recognizes him: the one who kicked and shoved the Master’s corpse aside and found her, _en dissemble_ , underneath. The one who hides half his face beneath a well-worn hat and carries chain-shot at his waist. She must appear a frightened animal, because he loosens his grip—not enough to catch visible notice, but enough that she feels it through a torn sleeve—and the hard, ugly forms of his face soften just slightly.

“You be far too young to sail these seas.” The captain states the obvious, but a bit kinder than she might have expected. “What purpose would the captain have for you on his ship?”

“My purpose is not to tie a sail or steer a vessel.” She answers, quietly. “The captain’s need for me is—was a more private matter.”

“Filthy _whore_.” The man at her right spits the insult, and it licks fire through her veins.

“Slavering mutt.” She returns, brazen and daring and presently incapable of knowing a bit of remorse for it. It could very well be a trick of the poor light, but she almost thinks the sailor, still at her side with a hand loose on her arm, flashes an approving grin.

But it was likely just the light.

The captain has been studying her, with great intent, but pale eyes flash with amusement—not a kindly amusement, but the savage sort, one with which she is most familiar—at her rash behavior. “So,” he murmurs, “be that the opinion you hold of your mates?”

She blinks, honestly surprised at the question. “I am but a slave, sir. These men are not my mates, but extensions of my Master.”

“Aye,” he nods, though not in a way that accepts her half-hearted response, “but you hold _some_ opinion of them, do you not, lass?”

She feels eyes on her, more than solely those of the captain and the sailor at her side; all of them, this crew of indescribable nature, stare in anticipation of her answer. This transfixed attention does not sit well with her; she understands it, feels it deep within the marrow of her bones, and it crawls like leeches over her skin.

“I have heard stories of you, sir.” She speaks slowly, determined to not betray a hint of the anxiety bubbling deep in her core. “They say you sail the seven seas, gathering only the strongest souls for your crew.” This much is true, though absent the more gruesome details of through what means these souls happen to be acquired, and she can only presume each legend true, for of all else the Dutchman’s crew are, there is certainly not a weak soul among them. “You will find these men unfit, then, to sail your vessel. They are of weak minds, and can be distracted by the basest of human desires: gluttony, sloth…lust.”

The smile curling his mouth can only be described as one of cruel satisfaction, but she thinks perhaps there are traces of amusement too: he considers her as one does a particularly interesting guest or clever street performer. Then she blinks, and he is of a dignified air once more. He turns to a man standing close at the left; amongst the gathered, she supposes this one has retained most of his human silhouette, yet his is the most unsettling profile: clawed appendages extend from what previously were the fingers of his left hand, forearm encased in the unyielding exoskeleton of a lobster, and from the originating bones of a human skull is that of a shark, the one they call _Hammerhead_ , and matching rows of jagged teeth protrude from bloodied lips. He presents as one in charge of the others, matched beside the captain…is she correct to think him the first mate?

“The lass has spoken.” The captain declares, left limb sweeping with emphasis to the pair still kneeling. “To the depths with them both.”

It is now, more distinctly than before, she appreciates the unbridled delight this crew takes in performing this aspect of their duties: with dark laughter rippling across the air, they descend, not unlike wild beasts, and draw identical curves of red in throats. She watches, detached from grief for the fate of both men. It bothers her that she can watch. It bothers her a bit more that she observes the sharp execution of blade to throat with something that feels like fascination.

The corpses are gone, plunged into dark depths below, and now she remains. One of the crewmen fingers his blade, and though she cannot see his eyes, she is certain they are filled with bloodlust. Her youth and pretty face mean nothing to one who has not yet had his fill.

_Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ _Thunk!_ —— _thunk!_ The captain returns to her, though he really didn’t stray terribly far. “How old are you, lass?”

“Thirteen years, sir.”

"You’re a young blood; clearly haven’t tasted an honest meal in your life," he notes, eyes lingering on her thin waist, "You most definitely have never helped man a ship, nor do you seem cut out for the work." Now he studies her hands, pale and without callous. "Might be an act of charity for me to let you join the others. But I be a fair man—” she privately wonders the truth of this, “—so tell me…do you fear death?"

Was she? Did she? Nights of begging for death implies the opposite, but her pleas were made in vain, and she knew it. She now stands in the presence of Death’s disciple, and she wonders if it is not enough to put the fear in her heart. She most assuredly fears the captain, this man of folklore proven far too real in flesh. She no longer examines the crew with any degree of curiosity because she feels their hunger and knows it is for her blood on their blades. But death…

“No, sir,” she whispers, “I do not believe I do. If a new beginning to life, no matter what kind of life it is, can erase the memories of the past…why would such an option be cause for fear?

She at least is certain of the intrigue crafting a delicate path over his features, and it makes her want to squirm. She isn’t familiar with a man looking at her this way.

He nods; the tentacles drift lazily over his chest and play across the lapels of a coat slick with seawater. “Well then, lass,” he murmurs, “you have a choice before you. End your misbegotten tale in the afterlife,” he nods to the waves, with a certain degree of respect, “or accept a new beginning with my crew. One-hundred years before the mast.”

His voice lowers, he leans closer, and she releases a breath unwittingly held captive in her lungs. “Will ye serve?”


	2. Lena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A name for a name.

Mornings are pale here, on the open seas. Across the horizon, rays of light, soft and without color, slip through the loose threads of grey clouds. Reflecting the sky in its glassy countenance, the waters lose the brilliance of turquoise and dull to a muted blue. It is a quiet morning, too; the waves splash without noise against the ship and leave little evidence of their presence. The only exception comes in small droplets, trickling their way through a multitude of cracks in the cabin walls and taking up residence on the floor or the dark surface of cannons— _Plink! Plink! Plink!_

She sighs. She brushes the offending water stains away with a bare palm, and once there is a hint of reassurance that nothing will disturb the surface she’s spent half an hour cleaning, she moves on to the next one. It is a tedious process, and in a room lined with more cannons than she’s seen in all her life, it is an unending task. The command, relayed to her some many, many, _many_ hours ago, feels demeaning and yet she finds something reassuring in the absence of a supervising crewmember. It is not, she knows, a compliment of any sort: the captain either fancies his crew has better things to do than keep an eye on an orphaned wreck of humanity, or he is confident in her ability to stay out of trouble. Rather, that she knows better. She isn’t inclined to prove him wrong.

There are cuts: thin red lines in the skin of both palms, tiny scrapes along the knuckles, and a gathering of small puncture wounds (these might actually scar) halfway to her elbow where she reached under a cannon and found a particularly disagreeable patch of barnacles. There is no sign of developing infection, yet; only the sting of exposure to the salty air. The wounds seem to heal well enough on their own, and the pain is easy enough to accommodate. It never bothers her for long.

Her legs object when she makes to stand: an unsteady response to the ship’s sway upon the waves. Using the wall of support, she takes the necessary steps to the last in an endless row of cannons. A perusing glance tells her this one will be the most difficult to work with: barnacles cling jealously to the cold iron, and there is an abundance scattered over the surface. All the same, this is her appointed task and it will be completed—she has little choice in the matter.

Her fingers resume their hold on a ragged piece of cloth, ruthlessly abused these past hours, all but crying for mercy. She thinks, absurdly, to apologize for what it is about to endure. It will likely not recover.

Two hours pass. Her jaw is clenched tight, teeth gritted behind her lips, as barnacles scrape mercilessly at her palm, her fingers, the exposed length of her forearm. Wounds opened only this morning are renewed; new lines of red appear along the sides of her index and thumb. Still, she presses onward; pushes the rag along the rounded surface, arm extending out, then drawing back in…and out…in…out…in…

_“Private matters, eh?” the voices are not particularly distinct from each other, low and hoarse to varying degrees; this one speaks louder from a small gathering near the rails. “Don’t take a sharp tool to fig’re that out. Even Hadras could do it.”_

_There’s an indignant protest from the named crewman, drowned quickly in a tide of cruel laughter. Then she hears a different voice, this one unique in the faint tinge of an accent and the words to follow, “Come off it, you lot. Girl’s just a kid.”_

_“She’s still a woman.” She can’t see, but she can hear the makings of a twisted grin over a twisted face, “’Member what that be, Clanker? Jus’ like a man, ‘cept it’s got a—”_

There are only threads left of this rag, clenched between her fingers, and with each drag across the battered surface she can feel them fraying further. It will not be much longer before its usefulness will run the course and it can finally be at peace—and in pieces.

_“Nimble lil’ thing—just like a lil’ fish, she is.”_

_“Wonder why she never says nothin’. Had no problem chattin’ up the cap’n, did she?”_

_“Who cares?” this voice makes itself distinct in a cold rasp of authority and indifference, “Long as she does as she’s told, let her talk that pretty head off or stay silent as the grave. Don’t matter, either way.”_

A sharp pain shoots along the nerves in her arm: a barnacle hiding to the cannon’s far left side, and there will be no need to try and scrape it free with tattered threads, now that it’s seen fit to lodge itself in her flesh. She pries the damned thing out, tasting blood in place of openly expressing her discomfort. Pain is a familiar presence in her life. It comes and goes as It pleases, takes too much and leaves nothing as compensation.

_“Down to lower decks with ye, girl.” A rag is tossed at her face. “Time to prove yer usefulness.”_

_Raucous laughter follows. “Seem ‘er old cap’n didn’t have no trouble with that.”_

_“Aye,” a wicked grin leers at her, “Maybe we can see just how **else** she’s useful?”_

She scrubs furiously at the cannon, punishing it. She neither knows nor cares what crime it has committed to deserve this treatment. Perhaps for causing grief and frustration; perhaps for collecting such a vast array of sea life discontent to be easily removed. Perhaps because it just happens to be here, at the right moment for her emotions to rage at, when there is no other option available.

_“Me thinks those pretty legs of ‘ers can be useful…”_

_“Alright, that be enough from the lot of ye.” The one they call Clanker—she knows his voice, knows his face, and remembers the way his gaze softened and his grip loosened without a single protesting word from her lips—steps forward with a heavy sound. “She’s nothin’ but a quiet kid who wants to be left alone.”_

_“Where be the fun in that?” she knows this tone, from a different crewman, only too well: lecherous with lust and greedy for flesh. “Can’t play with ‘er if we leave ‘er be.”_

The rag finally surrenders to its inevitable fate: unraveling limp and exhausted against her fingers. Something warm spreads down her arm: more barnacles, wedged deep in her arms, dark and grainy and stained red with blood. She sighs.

A few minutes later, bloodied barnacles lie at her bare feet. She forces the last one from her skin, splitting her lip with teeth in the process, and tosses it aside with the rest. What little remains of the cleaning rag is pressed to her bleeding arm, staunching the flow as best she can. It is not much in the way of relief, but it will be enough.

She sighs again, leans back against the wall. Her hair is loyal, cushioning her scalp from rough boards that otherwise would chaff. Above deck, she hears laughter. The crew seems fit to find almost anything to entertain them, and like the Master, their greatest amusement comes at the expense of others. Torture, suffering…even death is cause for great delight.

Her hands find familiar paths, dragging fingers through unruly blond curls, and begin braiding. It is a quick task, effortless to accomplish; once she had silk ribbons and other fine instruments to bind the entwined strands, but a simple knot suffices just as well. She doubts very much this ship has seen any fine linens and silks for decades, if ever.

The sound of footsteps, heavy and shuffling, catch her attention; descending a cramped staircase leading either to the common area, where the crew is known to gather, or to the storage room. She doesn’t recognize the footsteps, but she does know enough to assume who it is not. The captain rarely leaves his quarters, and the first mate moves in near silence—not unlike his assumed visage. More to the point, she was the slave of a captain; she knows how the hierarchy works: there are the trusted members of a crew, there are a handful of soldiers who have proven their worth, and then there are the rest. The soldiers look after the lowest crewmates. The captain and his entrusted have better things to do than be bothered with such insignificant persons.

The footsteps pause, only a short time, and then a figure appears, silhouette dim without proper light, shoulders slumped forward. She hears the soft chink of metal, and she recognizes this man.

Clanker—not his given name, she’s sure, but no one here seems content to use anything beyond strangely-befitting nicknames—pauses for a moment; his dark eyes are little more than shadows mounted below a heavy brow, but she feels their gaze. He scans the long row of cannons, their surfaces hardly gleaming clean but at least a fair better sight than before, then settles on her briefly before making a secondary inspection. The next time he turns attention to her, it stays and it feels different than the rest. She thinks he looks with interest, even curiosity, as though she is a fascinating creature he might like to learn more about.

“Ye do all this by yerself?” he asks, one hand gesturing to the cannons. She doesn’t answer; this riddle is one he can solve of his own efforts. No one has come down here, to assist her in the task, and there is no other person with her now.

He looks…impressed. At least, she presumes as much, with what little can be seen of his expression. He nods, more to himself than her, and shuffles forward. His right hand carries something large, bulky in form, wrapped loose in cloth. The chain-shot dangles from his belt, chains speaking softly against each other, iron balls rolling carelessly across his thigh. She watches in silence, attention slowly ascending to his hand and its contents. A stench fills the air, and her belly clenches in recognition. The Master’s city was half an island, and there was never a day when this particular odor did not reek through every crevice and pollute the air, mingling unfavorably with stale smoke and opium.

He kneels to her left; instinct demands she jerk away and put space between them, but she remembers the way he looked at her, that night, and how he chose to not handle her like a feral beast. His pose is nonthreatening, and he’s not raised a hand to her. So she sits, and she waits, and she watches him set the covered bundle on the floor before unwrapped it. Two large fish, stripped clean: her stomach turns a little.

“Here,” he carves a chunk of meat free and offers it on the blade’s tip, “ain’t much, but it’s edible.”

She studies him in further silence; looks for deception, a hint that he will abruptly retract his offering (or worse, demand payment for it). There is nothing to be found, and it confuses her.

Her fingers extend for the meat, eyes never departing from his face. The fish is cold, uncooked; her belly recoils, horrified, then in the next breath it grumbles low in wanting. She has not touched food since setting foot on this ship, and the need for it outweighs disgust for what is available.

Clanker seems pleased when she lifts the offering to her mouth and tears into it with her teeth. “There ye go,” he nods, and she does not recall the last time she was praised in this way, “Need to put some meat on those bones, we do. Can’t have ye blowin’ away with the next wind.”

A joke. Humor. She nearly smiles, but buries it in another bite. _Expressionless, like a little doll. Life is safer this way._

His eyes are on her, examining carefully, intently— _too intently_ —and she snaps a gaze at him, demanding answers without words. He grins and lifts hands in a gesture of peace. “No harm meant, lass.” He offers, and amidst a bit of respectable humor she hears humility, an apology that feels almost genuine, and she softens at the way he shifts a bit to create space between them. “It be yer eyes. Never seen a shade quite like ‘em. ‘Cept maybe in the sun. Ever seen it? When the sun hits the water, right a’ dawn, waves burn like the sky on Judgment Day. Ye know, lass?”

She shakes her head. Her past is a world of barred windows and locked doors; a myriad of sounds and smells, and monsters stinking of musk and salt reaching out with greedy hands and pulling her into darkness. The days passed without much in the way of awareness regarding time. If she has seen a sunrise, she can’t remember.

He chuckles, low and warm, and it tingles a path along her nerves. There’s another piece of fish meat waiting for her, in his palm, and then he cuts a piece for himself. He leans back against the wall, at ease, flicking a finger against the brim and propping his hat a bit higher on his brow. “Suppose me question should be, ever seen the world beyond four planks of wood, lass?”

She shakes her head again. “And I suppose no soul’s ever mentioned how pretty those eyes of yers be, eh? Not one?”

_Pretty…_ she knows this word. _Pretty little thing._ She doesn’t remember it being offered in a way so…sincerely?

“Hmm.” He tears a chunk free with his teeth—his mouth is large, uncommonly so, and his teeth are dirty, but she thinks, if not for the abundance of sea life obscuring his natural features, he might have a good smile, decent teeth for seafaring fellows, and a large mouth makes for a broad grin—and falls silent for a moment. “More fools in the world than I thought.”

He speaks as though he has just come across the answer to some great mystery of life. She nearly smiles, again.

Silence passes between them. The meat settles, albeit warily, in her belly, and she takes some time to consider how it feels to have a man regard her with interest, yet display no intentions of manipulation or deceit, or demand payment for nothing on her knees. It is strange, but not unpleasant. She knows enough to say she doesn’t dislike it.

She thinks, in fact…she might enjoy it.

“So, lass,” he says after a time, slicing another bit of meat for himself, “ye have a name?”

It’s her turn to look surprised, to dart a wide-eyed glance towards him and find an expectant expression. He looks as though he can’t wait to learn her name. As though he has nothing else to look forward to in this life, as much as he does her answer.

She forgets to respond, in any capacity, and he leans forward with the hint of a grin crooking his mouth. “Come now, lass. Ye don’t want us callin’ ye ‘girl’ the rest of yer days, eh? We gots to have somethin’ to call ye.”

It is a wonder she hasn’t forgotten her name by now. All these years, she’s been called by her birth name once—no, twice. It is easy to forget something when you don’t use it regularly, if ever. But maybe it was this simple act, this silent determination to remember her name—her real name—which kept her alive. Kept her sane.

He extends one hand to her: a customary greeting gesture, she believes, though the Master and his crew used a different approach. “Reck’n you know by now,” his grin broadens, just a bit, “but they call me Clanker.”

He’s still waiting, still looking at her with dark eyes, shadowed in the brim of his hat, and there is something strangely pleasant in his gaze. She drops attention from his face and a warm gaze to his hand. Studies it: deep lines, encrusted with barnacles, lined thick with sand; a broad palm and heavy fingers. She’s seen hands such as these before, but without such oddities attached that render it, and its owner, something other than human. She thinks, perhaps, the strangeness makes it less of a threat. The hands of human men grab and bruise and break. She wonders if hands such as these could be gentle.

Her hand trembles, even as she tries to be brave. A pale hand, slender in form, fingers long and delicate, extends and settles within his offered palm. The barnacles are rough, but don’t hurt. The sand is grainy, chaffs the skin, but she doesn’t recoil because the texture is a pleasant difference from thick callouses on a meaty palm. He closes fingers around her hand, clasps it firm to his, and she isn’t afraid of his grip.

“Lena.” She whispers. “My name is Lena.”


	3. Respect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relationships on the Dutchman are tricky things. Particularly when you start off on the wrong foot.

It is well before dawn when Lena slips from her hammock, footsteps masked by heavy rumbles of snoring throughout the cabin, and tiptoes to the upper deck. The sky is dark, velvet black accented by rich blue, and the stars have not yet entirely retired from their posts. A chill coils through the air. She can smell the salt, feel the gentle sway of the ship beneath bare feet. In the darkness, she can see little of the waves but their whispers ring softly in her ears. Across the horizon, a sliver of pale light hints amidst a dark canvas. She has time, so she rests against the rail and waits.

Her sleep has been dreamless but restful as of late; an odd occurrence but not unpleasant. She wonders if it has to do with new surroundings: new sounds, smells, sensations. In place of hard-planked floors, a hammock. The salt of waves and ocean winds in place of rotted fish guts and smoke. The lulling rock of waves to soothe a distracted mind, instead of vulgar curses only a short distance away. Perhaps greatest of all, the reassurance that she’s nothing to fear from this crew: for all their crude mutterings, no one has yet laid hands on her. Likely, it is simply a testament to how little they care to bother with her, but she’ll take their dismissal with open arms.

The dawn approaches: tendrils of light stretch wide, greedily stealing through night, pushing darkness away with haste. Faster, faster, racing desperate to awaken the world with her radiance, Daylight spreads her translucent glory across the horizon. Then, a solitary orb of gold erupts. Blinding, self-exalting in its arrival, the sun strikes fire upon the waves as the flint does on stone. White foam and gleaming waters.

Her fingers clutch at a line, steadying, anchoring her to this moment. Such beauty cannot be replicated by the hands of man, nor of woman. This is the canvas upon which Nature creates masterpieces…but only a few are truly appreciative. Only a few look with awe and humble their hearts before the artist’s delicate craft.

“Quite the view, eh?” Clanker murmurs; she must be distracted, to not even hear his approach. The dawn washes over his face and brings each detail into sharp clarity.

“It’s beautiful.” She whispers, breathless. A thousand moments more she would watch and revel and revere this view, but dawn’s first light stirs awareness back into the crew—and sloth is not tolerated, not matter the excuse.

Clanker doesn’t send her to the cannons again—“Ye’ve done the part, for now,” he says, not unkindly—but instead hands her a pail and new rag (“new” not referring to the actual state of this poor scrap, just that it’s a different cloth than the one she maimed over several hours). They call this “swabbing the deck”. She’s heard the term before…in a manner. The Master never actually used the word “swab”. But the concept remains the same.

“Why do you dirty the water when it’s supposed to be cleaning the deck?” she asks, eyebrows high. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

He tilts his head for a minute, then shrugs. “What be yer alternate, lass?”

A moment, maybe more, while she studies the deck. Does she really know what she’s doing? Of course not, not in the pure technicalities of it all, but she knows what makes logical sense and what doesn’t. Such will have to be enough, for now. So, after brief thought, she takes the pail, focuses her aim, and launches the water across deck. It reminds her, pleasantly, of the other day when a wave lapped at the Dutchman’s lower side and sprayed salt in the air.

There are few layers to this dress—all the less to actually remove, when the Master had his needs—but the skirt is long and she takes a minute to bustle it in the back. Not the most attractive silhouette, to be sure; fortunately, such is no longer a concern of hers. She settles on her knees, rag in hand, and scrubs as she previously did the cannon barrel. The deck is different: the planks splintered and worn, but sea life doesn’t seem to be as collective here as in other parts of the ship. A relief, to be sure: her hands and arms are still healing.

Clanker’s chuckling makes her look up. “Ye’ve a good head on those shoulders, lass.” He grins; he is doing something with a line, “Ye think good.”

Lena doesn’t smile, outwardly, but the compliment settles nicely in her ears.

By the time anyone else appears on deck, Lena is moving steadily across the designated area. Her skirt is wet, sticky on her legs; the loose braid is doing nothing to keep her hair in check, and she finally sits back on calves with a low huff, twists fingers quickly through the tangled mess and make a few knots before getting back to it. Arms and legs alike ache in a different way, one she can liken to less palatable memories, but without the throbbing pain between her—

She blinks, clenches the rag a little, and shakes her head.

Clanker hasn’t wandered terribly far, which is to say she can feel him keep a watchful eye over her, even across the deck. He can’t help but walk through little spots where she’s cleaned; it doesn’t bother her as she thought it might. Probably because she knows there is no way to keep an area truly clean, not on any ship and certainly not on a ship such as the Dutchman.

“All hands on deck!!” she nearly leaps out of her skin, peace abruptly broken by the resounding crack of authority in the air. Below deck, below her hands, she can feel the rumble of roused bodies and hear grumbles and muffled curses. Above, the sun grows warm on her neck and shoulders. It isn’t yet high enough, not yet late enough in the day to burn hot. That will come later.

Now, Clanker closes the distance between them once more. No words, just a quiet movement that, in itself, speaks volumes. She feels the urge to press the remaining inches, tuck herself close like a child. Bury herself in his shadow. The desire startles her. She’s never felt this way before.

“Ye be doin’ well, lass.” He says, almost inaudible above the rising din as crewmen scatter across the deck. “Hard worker, ye are.”

More praise. “…Thank you.” She murmurs; a few strands have come loose, yet again; she shoves them behind her ears.

“Suppose this is all new for ye.” He speaks casually, but she’s certain he is simply dancing around the questions demanding to be asked. “Work, work, work; sun-up to sun-down. Not quite the way of idle, carefree, happy childhood, eh?”

_Ah._ She understands now. “I have not been a _child_ for years.”

He pauses, fiddles with something—she can’t see beyond the peripheral, and the deck still warrants attention—for a bit, and then hums quietly. “Would that ‘appen to be those ‘private matters’ ye mentioned, then?”

This doesn’t warrant an answer, so she doesn’t give one. She made her purpose aboard the Master’s ship quite clear with words to the captain, for all his crew to hear. Whether or not Clanker is looking for the more explicit details, she can’t be sure. She supposes it’s only natural for men of…lacking scruples to want to know these things.

“How long were ye with ‘im?” it surprises her, a little, when his next question isn’t more pressing. But it also offers relief. It means he doesn’t want to know anything beyond what she’ll tell him.

“As long as I can remember.” She answers at length. Water pools around her knees, soaking through her skirt. “I have no memories of my past that do not start and end with him.”

“New memories, then.” Clanker says, patting her twice on the shoulder—he has very big hands, strong and heavy—before taking hold of a line and, as best she can assume, securing it around a post, of some sort. “Be some good, a few not so, and the rest fall in the middle. Ye’ll learn as ye go.”

Clanker’s words take a prophetic meaning, late in the afternoon. She’s cleaned the deck under the crew’s feet—a process which ultimately entailed being stepped over, tripped over, and finally stepped on—twice. Her hands are blistering, the sun has beaten a hot path across her back, and the sting of sweat in open wounds has proven discomforting enough that she needs a break.

“Up on yer feet, lass.” Clanker suddenly appears at her side; one hand is at her arm, tugging insistently. There is an urgency about him that moves her to comply. She wonders if it means she trusts him now. Then she thinks it cannot be trust, not just yet. Trust takes time to build. It is not a bridge woven so quickly in a handful of days.

He hands her the rag again, mumbles something or other about a spot on the rail that needs scrubbing, and once again there is an air about him which does not allow for objections. So she works, attending to an invisible spot on the rail, and a short moment later—with the introduction of a voice, the likes of which could frighten the Devil from his fiery throne—everything makes sense.

“I thought the girl was told to be down below, tending to the cannons.”

Indignation pricks her nerves; an unfamiliar sensation, particularly when she is accustomed to being ignored instead of addressed as an intelligent, capable, perfectly coherent human being. She wonders why it bothers her so much.

“Aye, sir.” Clanker nods, “But she’s already done ‘em all.”

A low sound, more a scoff than anything, and she feels the prick again. That sound is one of doubt, and she momentarily wants to affirm her work, the hours of laboring and bleeding her arms and hands raw. But she says nothing, only scrubs harder.

“Then see to it she stays busy.” Even amidst her frustration, she hears that which sets him apart from the rest: a solid vocabulary, the mark of an educated man. No pirate she’s ever encountered speaks so eloquently.

“Aye, sir.”

Silence. She can only assume the threat is now gone, because Clanker breathes slow, leans against the rail, and nudges her arm gently. “Sorry ‘bout that, lass.” He offers. “Trust me: last thing ye want is to be idle when _he_ ’s around.”

_Idleness makes for availability…_ she could never seem idle, or bored, around the Master either— _“I’ll put you to work, little whore.”_ —and yet there had never been another choice. The Master went out of his way to ensure she could be nothing but available for his needs. “Does he have a name, then?” she asks, quietly, “Or was he born ‘Sir’?”

“Oh, he’s got one.” Her palm catches a splintered section of the rail; a curse dies behind clenched teeth. “Just don’t use it much.”

“Hmm.” Lena slowly pries wooden fragments from her palm, unsure if she should lament the ruin of pretty palms, untainted and smooth, or if this is some sort of obscure blessing in elaborate disguise.

She must sound unimpressed, or something of the like, because Clanker continues, “Maccus. Name’s Maccus. Been with the cap’n ‘bout as long as the rest…maybe a bit more…?” he looks as though he’s trying to calculate an exact number of years, before shrugging it off, “Least, he was here when I joined the lot. Time was, didn’t look like he’d been here longer than a year, but already had the title to boot.”

Her eyebrow rose exceptionally high on her face. “After only a year?” The Master’s first mate was selected after five years of explicit devotion. To have climbed the ranks to first mate after such a short time was all but unheard of.

“Aye.” Clanker nods. “No one’s sure just what he did, finding himself in the cap’n’s graces, but it obviously worked. Now, listen close: when he’s talking to ye, it be ‘Yes, sir’ and ‘No, sir’ and ‘Won’t happen again, sir’, ye hear? Trust me, lass,” his tone drops, “last thing ye want is pick a fight with ‘im. Got a nasty temper, he does—and ye’ll do well to believe he don’t carry that axe for show.”

Her eyes drift across deck, to the broad-handled weapon latched at the first mate’s belt. She doesn’t need a second look; one is enough to see just how sharp he keeps the blade.

Her hand is still bleeding, but the pain is forgotten.

***

By early nightfall, she’s been left alone. The deck cleaned in the morning, the rails scrubbed (whether they needed it or not, she could care less) in afternoon, and now she addresses the needs of lanterns scattered about the upper decks. The crew is congregating down below; she can hear the usual clamor of drinking and—as best she can interpret—gambling. The lanterns are lit, a quiet glow dancing in glass confines. Even as she cleans the exterior panes, her gaze is for the flame dancing merrily within. It is the only sign of innocent delight yet to be found on this ship: that of Nature’s making, not man’s. Nature, then, alone is capable of creating beauty. When Man tries to replicate what cannot be imitated, it becomes distorted. As such, what might be glorious to behold beneath the ocean tide, sea life and fauna and the creatures dwelling in those depths…it all becomes hideous monstrosities when bound to man’s physical form.

Then she turns, unsuspecting, and quite nearly collides with a chest and its owner standing an uncomfortably short distance away. She embarrasses herself, stumbling backward without grace and catching her hem on something in the process. Flushed with the humiliation of being caught off-guard, she then makes the mistake of looking up to find the identity of her uninvited company. Regret seizes her at first glance, but isn’t enough of a rebuke to divert attention from a pair of eyes unlike any she’s ever seen: black, like the evening sky, pupils much too large and far too dark, but rimmed with blue—like the morning tide under first sunlight. These are eyes which might be considered beautiful, possessing a mesmerizing quality, and perhaps on a different person they would indeed.

As it is, ‘beautiful’ and ‘mesmerizing’ are not descriptive words she would apply to this man.

“You’re not to leave Clanker’s sight, girl.” He—Maccus—speaks with a hiss, and she wonders if it is an unfortunate side-effect of his jagged teeth, or a more natural trait. “Why are you _here_ when he is down _there_?”

_“Be sure to keep a close eye on my little pet,” the Master’s voice is low, darkly amused, and he pets her head in just the right way to scrape nails over her scalp, “I can’t have her wandering off too far. Not when I will have need of her later.”_

“Your specific instructions were to keep busy, sir.” She answers; now that contact has been established between his eyes and hers, looking elsewhere ceases to be an option. “There was nothing said about keeping to Clanker’s shadow, and I have no need to do so. I am not some mongrel pup, nor am I a child. I can tend to my work as it is given to me, and find things to do when it is not. So if you have some task in mind, please—do tell.”

What constitutes fingers for his left hand grip her jaw, tight, and lock her chin in place. The strain on her neck aches; dull spurts of discomfort crawling across her nerves. Still, she holds her ground. She has been mishandled in this fashion before, more than once. The way his fingers dig into her skin, appendages more claw-like than those of human form, adds more in the way of pain but nothing with regards to dampening her anger.

“You will mind your tongue, girl.” The first mate growls, teeth bared in a way that unnerves, but she won’t let it frighten her. His tone is cold, that of a man who knows no remorse for his actions and is ruthless in every execution. “And you _will_ learn respect, whether you like it or not.”

He’s too close, those terrible eyes searching too deep, invasive without permission. He looks as though he might see through her defenses and unearth every last secret. Those eyes strip her naked, leave her vulnerable. She won’t let it. She won’t let him—

Her head jerks away. Already she feels scratches and fresh bruises from his grip. The scratches bleed thin rivers of red. Her jaw aches. “I give respect to those who earn it,” she whispers, “… _sir_. And you are greatly mistaken if you think I shall learn to respect _you_.”


	4. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions are difficult to undo. But if you don't care to make a better second impression, it doesn't really matter.

With youth, even a misspent one, comes the unfortunate curse of naivety. Lena isn’t naïve in many matters (remarkably few, truth be told), but the reality has come to her full awareness: extensive knowledge of carnal matters does not make for awareness regarding social propriety. Not the kind of propriety which dictates how one dresses and does or does not interact with members of the opposite sex, but rather the social hierarchy and where one falls in the grand scheme.

Familiarity with one member of the _Dutchman_ ’s crew has done her a great disservice. Learning the names of various other members has equally proven ill for her paltry ideas of just how informal she can—more specifically, _cannot_ be with this crew. Those she is supposedly allowed to call her mates, fellow sailors aboard this vessel…ah, but there still is a hierarchy, is there not?

And for those moments when she forgets, they are more than happy to remind her.

“Ye’ll not be speaking to me like that, girl.” She learned his name, Koleniko, by accident a few weeks ago; better to have never learned it at all, to have spared herself the consequence of an innocent lapse in judgment. “Clanker may be fool enough to think ye on our same level, but yer not. Ye be a pretty face with loose legs, and ye’re here to clean what needs cleaning and keep yer mouth shut. Understand?”

It angers her, more than she expected. Or maybe it’s the way he hems her in to the nearest wall while he berates her to the point of complete humiliation. But perhaps it all comes down to the glamorous description: pretty face and loose legs.

_“End your misbegotten tale in the afterlife…or accept a new beginning with my crew.”_ And what new beginning, exactly, has she accepted? What is new when the crew takes great pleasure in reminding her of the past; regards her with the same unadulterated derision as the Master? She’ll go so far as demand, even in silence, just what gives them the right to treat her this way…but that is just pride shouting its protests. She is a child to them. They’ve no reason to offer her reprieve. Instead, she must atone for a past not of her choosing, and sins committed not of her free will.

Koleniko leaves her. She lingers a moment more at the wall, wipes her eyes clear before the tears make their betraying mark, then makes for the upper decks. She retreats to the safety of a higher perch, where the sun is hot on the face but the ocean breeze blows especially cool and dances through her hair. The next hour or so is spent in blissful solitude, repairing lines. Of course, with silence comes the plague of memories, the assault of unspoken thoughts swirling unchecked like a hurricane. By the time the sun lowers from high noon, the heat finally waning from her skin, her temper boils in a way it never has before.

Is this the consequence of thirteen years, lived with all the displayed emotion of a doll—the kind crafted from loose rags and scraped cloth, not fine porcelain and pretty silk garments? Is this the new beginning promised: to feel the churning rage as she never did before, and be one careless step away from lost in the storm? It frightens her. Terrifies her. She doesn’t know just what she might be capable of, captured in the throes of her hatred. She might—

—He’s down there.

For all the first mate can’t be heard approaching, she can feel the intensity of his gaze like a hot brand. Distance makes no difference. When she concedes to look down, meet his gaze even with the finer details lost, there is a silent demand there—one which requires no spoken words to be understood.

With great care, she shifts upright, muscles quietly protesting, and inches her way to the mast. A line waits for her: the means by which she ascended to this place hours earlier, and now by which she will make her descent and learn just what berating the first mate has for her this time.

She lands on deck much too close, and takes several backward steps before he can say anything. If he doesn’t approve of their proximity, she’s sure he will adjust her position accordingly—with no gentility—and she just as soon will save him the trouble. If he’s pleased with her act of submission (precisely what it is, no point pretending otherwise), he doesn’t show it. His right hand reaches for one of the lines she’s repaired and gives a firm tug. He’s testing it, testing her skills, with those eyes carefully examining the line’s delicate sway, not a hint of yielding to his applied pressure.

Lena, for her part, stares at the deck. The darkening shade of red peeks out from bare soles, and she remembers two days earlier: a misguided step on a patch of coral, hiding in plain sight. The wound is healing, well enough. Or so she keeps telling herself, because no other option is available to her. This crew has no tolerance for injuries.

He looks at her; she doesn’t see it as much as feel the pierce of his gaze. “You know how to mend a line.”

He doesn’t ask a question, but she offers further explanation as though he did. “I know how to sew, sir.” She replies quietly; her eyes have lifted from the deck to the narrow loop between his arm and chest. “The two are not so different.”

“Hmm.” He tugs on the line again; for what reason, she can’t say. “And your Master taught you this skill, did he?”

She bites her inner lip, hard. “The Master did not occupy every waking moment of my day, sir.” If her tone is a little terse, she refuses to be blamed for it.

The first mate clearly picks up on her tone; his eyes narrow to dark slits, and he enters her personal space yet again. “Since you’ve found a way to make yourself useful,” he says, much too quietly, “go on. There are others in need of your…services.”

Lena can only suspect, based on his choice of that particular word and the tone in which it is spoken, he fully intends to get under her skin. Much as she’s loathe to give him the satisfaction, he succeeds only too-well, and her nails bite deep into palms—necessary, before she lunges and takes his throat.

She blinks, startled at herself. The image is vivid: hot blood, red, over her fingers, running in thick streams down her forearms. She shivers. Where do such desires come from—rather, where does the willingness, however fleeting, to exact such violence lurk inside her heart?

“Get to it.” He snarls, low in her ear. It ruffles her pride to obey, but she indeed flees his presence without delay for fear of what terrible visions might be conceived, should she linger a moment more.

***

She works well into the evening hours, until the darkness is such that she cannot see the lines draped across her lap. By now, she is at least assured the crew will have congregated in their usual place, abandoning the upper decks, and she will be able to make her descent without incident.

“Ye be a hard one to find today, lass.” Clanker says, stretched across the rail with a bottle of rum already in hand. “In the mood to be alone, eh?”

She wrangles a weak smile in place. “I didn’t fancy company today.”

He tilts the brim up, peering closely at her arms; she makes to hide them behind her back, but he moves with a speed she isn’t expecting and catches one limb in hand. He brings it near the lamp, dull glow of pale gold illumination, and frowns. “Appears ye don’t fancy much—yer well-being included.” His frown deepens. “Bloody ‘ell, lass…ye look like you lost a fight with a shark.”

She scowls and pulls her arm away—less kindly than she otherwise might have, had his words not just pricked a sore nerve. “I suppose you could say as much.” Her tone is crisp, and she pushes both hands through her hair, loosened into a dreadful mess by the winds, with more force than necessary. She pays for her rash behavior when a tangled curl gets caught in her fingers and her scalp aches in turn.

Clanker’s frown deepens; so large is his mouth, the vision reminds her of some large fish from the deep, one who might catch a fisherman’s hook and still go about his business undisturbed. “I warned ye, lass,” his tone is uncommonly serious—far more than she’s heard before—and his gaze is dark, “don’t be pressing yer luck with ‘im. Get on his bad side; ye’ll not be comin’ back in one piece.”

She blinks. “So are there other unlucky crewman, Clanker?” she asks, not bothering to filter out the condescending tone, “Poor souls who failed to bow down and give the first mate his rightful dues?”

“None of that.” He shakes his head; the thick shell strands sway heavily. “Steer clear of that one, or mark me words, he’ll have you regretting it.”

Her spine goes rigid. Once again, she see red rivers of blood, streaming free over her hands; smells the bitter copper of expelling life-source, hears gasping breaths of the dying, and the world briefly spins before her eyes. “The Master was the same way.” She whispers, as if coming to a great revelation. “Cold in his words. Commanding in his presence. Every soul crossing his path was lower than an insect, deserving of no respect and even less dignity. Steer clear…or he would make sure you regretted it. He could make you curse the day you were born.”

She snaps back, turning sharp, to face Clanker. She wonders what fire is dancing in her eyes, because he looks both startled and wary. “I am no stranger to men who demand respect solely through means of terror and threat of physical injury.” Her voice is cold, even to her ears. “I was bent low beneath their soles, long as I can remember. But I will not bow to him. I am _not_ afraid of him. I will swallow a thousand more blows from his hand before I show him fear.”

***

A pair of gulls dance above, wings spread wide as they circle one another; over and over again, a strange ritual with a purpose known only to them. Their voices are harsh on the winds, a cacophony of noise, but Lena thinks there is something enchanting about the whole spectacle. A mating dance, she suspects: the dance every animal engages in once they have found their soul mate. The one to whom they will forever belong, now until the moment Death draws them apart. She wonders what would be different about this world, should human beings regard mating with the same reverence. Then she dismisses the thought, because mankind is of a more primitive mind than all who dwell in the animal kingdom. The beasts of land and sea are eloquent and graceful creatures; their lives are marked by seasons, and when each season comes to pass they abide by their natural urges.

Man…man is a feral beast. They can no more contain their carnal desires than go without food in their belly and rum in their veins. Were she a bird with wings to fly or a fish with scales to shimmer beneath sunlight…were she, life would have been kinder.

Two crewman—Hadras and…Pacific? No, Palifico—stumble about with bottles swinging loose in their hands, half-empty. They talk without coherency and laugh much too loudly. Clanker is on watch, sober at the wheel. She thinks to join him, then decides against it. He might take the uninvited opportunity to lecture her about minding her place, keeping her nose clean lest she lose it, and she’s not in the mood for it. Being of thirteen years does not make her a child. She won’t be spoken to as one.

Clanker has a distant smile trickling across his mouth; she can vaguely see it from her present perch. His eyes are for the sunset, and she thinks he must admire it. She wonders at that, at how anyone pays great respect to the beginning or end of a day. A sunset means you survived the grueling hours of daylight; a sunrise means those same hours now lie before you, ready to be endured yet again.

So what has changed? A new beginning, a new life, and yet what is new? She is a child among grown men, possessing nothing but the clothes on her back and a name left unused. She is not “Lena” to this crew; she is “Girl”. She is an object of entertainment, a tool for accomplishing one task or another; an empty-headed child with a pretty face and loose legs. This is not a new life, but another prison. The cell has changed, the jailers are different, but a prison it remains.

She can feel eyes on her. _His_ eyes. She thinks of the Master and his crew, and the tales they would occasionally utter over a low fire and their meal of fish and tea. Some of them bore scars; one man in particular had lost a sizeable portion of his left thigh muscle to the tearing of teeth into flesh. Another lost his brother at sea, one stormy night. Each scar, every tale, was marked by one distinct memory: the eyes. She would listen to men speak of looking straight into dark eyes, empty eyes, while fighting for their lives. To look into the eyes of a shark, they whispered, is to look into the eyes of the Devil himself.

The first mate possesses all the stealth of a shark: moving with swift deliberation, never spotted until they are too close and it simply is too late. She understands why they are masters of the sea: skilled hunters, ultimate predators. Not even man can outwit the ocean lords without paying a price for their freedom.

“May I help you, sir?” she finally breaks the silence, pleased when it gets to be on her terms, for once, but never looks away from the sky and its bleeding horizon. “Or are you admiring the view?”

Inaudible as it is, she can’t be sure if he just ground his teeth together, bit his lip, and cursed from the pain…or if he’s muttering curses at her without enough volume to make sense of it. She doesn’t particularly care, but she is a little curious. When he’s close enough that she has no choice but to give him attention, she sees a thin trickle of blood dribbling down his chin. She doesn’t smirk, only barely.

“You have yet to grasp the idea of _respect_.” Maccus says, very quietly, “I suggest you make a point to learn, very quickly. Do you understand me?”

Her lips thin into an unidentified expression—certainly not a smile, but of the wrong shape to be a frown—and she leans upright. “Respect, you say?” she murmurs, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Is that what you call it, then? Threatening those subservient to you with physical harm, with violence…with injury far worse than even those conceived in nightmares? You think you are earning _respect_ through these means? You think it is out of _respect_ the crew cowers before you, rushes to do that which you demand of them, never once questioning a word you say? You call that _respect_?” she sits up a little straighter, willfully defiant of the blazing fury in his eyes. “That, sir, is not respect. It is called _fear_.”

Caring little for the consequences—she wonders if she isn’t, in some way, hoping there to be consequences, just to give her more reason to hate this man—she tosses herself off the rail and stands before him. He doesn’t move, not even a flinch to put space between them. He glares at her, waits for her to correct the mistake of her impulsivity. When it becomes apparent she will not, he takes a forward step and narrows the distance between them. His body radiates a chill, and his skin reeks of salt.

“If such is what you demand of me,” she continues, unmoved by the way he bares his teeth and makes known the considerable difference in height before his form and hers, “then kindly call it what it is. You have no need of reverence or admiration, nor do you want me to respect you as a figure worthy of authority. You want me to fear you, plain and simple. But I assure you, sir, I will not. In you, I see my Master, and I _despised_ my Master. You can be well assured my feelings for you are no different—so long as there remains the tiniest trace of _him_ which can be found in _you_.”


	5. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The emotional dam breaks, and there are consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: semi-graphic descriptions of rape and violence.

“Girl keeps to herself.” The captain says, perfectly calm, the smoothing familiarity of tobacco curling in his throat for a moment. “Head down, voice soft. Does as she’s told, when she’s told to do it. I fail to see the problem.” Another slow draw from his pipe, “Perhaps you wish to enlighten me otherwise?”

The scowl etched deeply into his first mate’s mouth says, in fact, Maccus does wish to enlighten his captain otherwise. At his clenched jaw and narrowed gaze, Jones determines this is going to be a perhaps lengthy explanation and he might as well get comfortable. So he leans against the keyboard, ignoring the quiet reply of a few ivories imposed upon by his presence, releases his most recent draw through the siphon of his left cheek, and waits.

Maccus doesn’t disappoint, half a second later. “She is an insolent, stubborn, unapologetic little cretin who refuses to follow the rules and cannot be bothered to show respect where it is warranted.”

Jones blinks; the pipe stem rests at his lips for a thoughtful pause. “I’ve not heard any such complaints from the crew.”

It’s a half-truth but not entirely a lie. He has had no such complaints brought to him directly from the crew, but he has overheard whispers here and there from one sailor or another, muttering about the girl being a nuisance rather than of actual assistance. Davy Jones grants no true reprieve for any of his crew, but a very small part of him frowns each time he hears such grumblings. The little wench is thirteen, for bloody sake—and a recovering whore to some waste of humanity. Just what grand display does the crew expect from her?

Maccus’ scowl deepens, in danger of puncturing his lips (again). “I assure you, sir, the girl has no concept of respect and hardly makes a point to learn. Simply because Clanker elects to overlook her insubordination does not mean the rest of us do.”

The captain lets a moment pass; he thinks to draw from his pipe again but instead simply lets it sit quietly in his mouth without further action. Then he sets it aside. “And this has nothing to do with the lass’ knack for wriggling under your skin, does it?” the corners of his mouth curl knowingly, “The crew has been talking, as of late…”

“The crew,” Maccus bites out, “will do well to mind both their eyes and their tongues, lest they lose either in any unfortunate accidents.”

His first mate knows a thing or two about unfortunate accidents. “The point remains,” Jones continues, “there be no real complaint as to Miss Lena’s work. She’s quiet, obedient—”

“—For now.” and the captain elects to not berate the rather insolent interruption out of simple curiosity for his first mate’s new argument. “We know little of her, Captain. What has she shared of her past, beyond her _private matters_?”

A pause, “What point be you driving at?”

“Liabilities, Captain.” Maccus says. “Our lack of knowledge does us a disservice—as does she, by not divulging any information which might be pertinent to know.”

The captain frowns a bit. “Let the lass keep her secrets, Maccus.” He says, firmly meeting the other man’s gaze. “Would you have the crew knowing all about _your_ past, hmm?”

A dark shadow passes over his expression, unbidden memories daring to dart free of internal confines—and then it fades, as quickly as it once came; recollections crushed and jailed once more with little more than a tight grimace of the mouth to indicate as much. But Maccus has served as first mate long enough; a good captain hears more in his crew’s silence than in their words. Davy Jones prides himself on being a captain of such quality.

“I’m not yet keen to let her go.” He finally declares. “The lass still has her uses, and until I see otherwise, she’s fit to stay just where she is.”

If a response was intended to follow (and Jones is quite certain his first mate had a final word to offer) it is interrupted by a shout beyond the captain’s cabin door. The nature of such an announcement does not immediately warrant urgency, but Maccus is not one for idle movements and makes for the decks with good speed. Jones follows a short while thereafter. His crew is already assembled, eager eyes for the remnants of a ship impaled on the reef. Waves beat against the wreckage, exaggerating a jagged rip which severed the vessel in half. Masts and torn sails stretch lifeless along the waves, disembodied limbs from a corpse.

At the rail, the girl stands apart from the others. She’s trying rather valiantly to mend a rag (she must have just finished cleaning something or other) and her downcast eyes offer no attention for the ravaged ship or the enthused murmurings of the crew. In her stance, the captain interprets no anticipation of being called upon to participate—and not without good reason; the newest additions often must earn the right to board and scour for survivors.

But there are exceptions to every rule.

There is always a moment of silence; a pause while the crew eagerly anticipates the captain’s order. He indulges himself with every second: time is a grand luxury and it is his to claim. There is no fear of any man, whoever might still draw breath in this life, escaping from the wreckage, and even less of some foolhardy sailor playing cheap heroics. The Dutchman has earned a rightful reputation, and the tales of what fate befalls the wrecked and ravaged are widespread. Every mother’s son who sails these seas knows it is better to die in the depths than survive to meet the devil-shepherd of souls.

“You know what to do.” He finally says, addressing Maccus quietly with minimal movement. “And take the girl.”

He glimpses a grimace in the peripheral. “You believe she is ready, sir?” the doubt saturates his first mate’s words. Davy Jones isn’t a man to be questioned, no matter the rank of the questioner, and the sharp glare he provides in place of verbal response states as much. The scowl doesn’t leave Maccus’ face—but then again, his face is all-but perpetually frozen in a disdained expression. It makes determining his truly aggravated moments from an impassive dismissal rather difficult.

Of course, circumstances being as they are, Jones sees the scowl for exactly what it is.

Unspoken objections aside, Maccus does as he’s told, as he knows to do without fail, and calls out the orders. The anticipation places his crew on a tight leash; the first mate’s declaration is a blade severing the restraints and every able-bodied sailor springs into action. Their descent upon the wreckage is swift, swarming in a collective mass of dark shapes. Clanker sees to the girl, assisting her to join the rest. She alone stands distinct with her golden head and milk-white skin. In the moments before departure, one deck to the next, Jones glimpses a strange sense of calm over her features.

Perhaps too calm.

Not a hinted frown betrays his newfound concern; his tone is perfectly neutral, spoken like a passing fancy before the first mate leaves his captain’s side and joins the rest. “Keep an eye on her.” He commands, and that it all. One way or another, these things have a way of unfolding in Fate’s palm.

***

Survivors are not difficult to find: a symphony of gasps, horrified moans, despairing wails, ring out through the silence, and the Dutchman’s crew lunge for prey like animals freed from their cages. From there, it is a matter of dragging bodies half-frozen in terror from the shadows, effortless with ruthless grasps and brutal force, to assemble on open deck. There is no task for Lena to undertake. Her only purpose is to stand, try to keep out of the way, and watch as the reluctant student.

She keeps to Clanker’s side, like some wayward pup lost on the streets and clinging to the shadow of the first one to show pity. His gaze is for the trembling line at the far rail. He frowns. “Cap’n’s missing.”

“Send the girl to find ‘im.” One calls out; she thinks it might be Palifico, but their voices sound far too similar, baring few exceptions, and she can see little to identify the speaker. Another voices agreement with the proposal; this one adds berating words of proving usefulness. They often find humor in this, in demanding a demonstration of her usefulness. Her body, specifically: they want to know, to see, how her body can be of use to them.

They laugh—well, not all of them, but she lets herself believe (to varying degrees of foolishness) Clanker will never find humor at her expense—and the grating chorus burns in her ears. They laugh, and it is the relentless resonation of a gong, every cacophonous thrum merciless until she longs to clasp both hands over tormented ears and drown it out. All of it. She cannot, and so her hands clench into fists and fists drive nails into soft palms and nails draw blood.

The pain distracts. She does not see the first mate until his shadow looms over her. He makes her feel small; emphasizes her youth in ways she dislikes, greatly. His gaze burns hot on her skin; when she forces a connection between those terrible eyes and hers, it scalds and looks too close and too deep and her skin crawls and nails bite deep, deeper. She wonders if he sees the thin rivets of blood creeping through clenched grasp. Thinks he must. He is a shark. Not a drop of life-source escapes their notice.

“Go find the captain.” He speaks quietly. Lena wishes for his shout, for the elevation of tone to shatter tranquility, in place of this. “Now.”

She has no choice but to obey, but the decision to respond in words remains hers and she refuses to give him even a tiny nod to indicate compliance. His eyes watch, ever burning, as she turns and departs familiar company. He is the predator, observing and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But she is no prey. She was once the prey, victim to forces the likes of which she could not battle. She will not be his.

Their laughter rings still in her ears.

***

She finds the lower decks quiet, but it is not a reprieve. The air here is much too close, thick with coiling tension. Her limbs are rigid and will not be soothed or relaxed. She anticipates with every step, though she does not know what it is she fears. Faceless phantoms, specters lingering in her midst without proper names, and she can only wait to see what they will unfurl. In their presence, she is reminded of her vulnerability, of how she is a woman—young, so very young…—and unprotected. Even Clanker will not be at her aid, not under the cold scrutiny of the one whose authority he fears.

She cannot begrudge him such submission. His heart does not house the same raging fury against men like the first mate, as hers does. He obeys living extensions of the captain’s authority; it is his way. It is not her way.

To the left, what once was an intricately-carved entryway has been uprooted from their foundations and doors lie haphazard to make a path within. Books. Books all over the floor, ruined in water. She pauses, kneels down, and retrieves one. The ink is smeared and the pages are torn. These words are foreign to her. She frowns at the damage. Books deserve better than this.

Erratic mutterings catch her attention: the far corner, a figure curled in protective stance with eyes darting about and fingers twitching without purpose. She wonders, now, looking at this man, how long this ship has been left to ocean’s questionable mercy. He is disheveled, wrecked nearly in the same manner of his vessel. The stench of unbathed skin permeates; his hair strewn across dirty brow. But his eyes frighten her. His eyes are bright, wild, and he looks at her with sudden movement, even on unsteady legs, and stumbles forward.

“A woman!” he exclaims. He staggers closer, and her stomach clenches: adverse reaction to his growing proximity. His movements are exaggerated; there is madness upon his face. He moves close, faster than necessary, yet her legs will not obey the urging of her mind to move. “A woman, a woman—no, no, no!!” his head shakes, wild, “I’ll have no woman on my ship! Bad luck, bad luck—bad luck, the lot of them! A plague on my ship! On my crew! A plague, a _plague_!”

He strikes her, without provocation. She stumbles; days, weeks, without physical assault have weakened her resolve. Her skin burns, stings with the lingering heat of his palm. She isn’t prepared for this. Doesn’t know how to handle this. Her throat aches. Her mind, her better judgment, has no care for pride and Clanker’s name is on tongue’s tip because she trusts no other mate to come to aid. But—he strikes again; a glancing blow in his faltering balance, but the rushing heat over her cheek speaks to the force intended. She steps back. He steps forward.

“A plague! A plague!” he raves, hands gesturing wild without reason. “You! _You_ ’ve brought my ship to ruin! Leech! Witch! This is _your_ doing!!”

She’s scared. She will admit it; confess even if only to herself and the Fates as they might listen. The Master’s men never succumbed to madness in such a way—such was evidence of weakness, and the Master had no time for weak links and minds unfit to contain themselves. Those men came to her of calm demeanor and salacious minds. Not this.

“Sir,” she tries, tries to be brave, but her voice falters, “please…calm down—” but he lunges forward, barely misses her arm and tears her sleeve in a wild grip. Too close. Tears prick; she forces them back. She won’t cry. She will _not_ cry.

“No woman orders me on my own vessel!” he wails, expelling each word; she wonders who else can hear his mindless ranting. Surely the sound carries. Surely someone—anyone—God damn him and his arrogance, but she even prays in this moment for the first mate if only because he fears nothing and carries the tool necessary to silence this man with barely an effort.

“Sir, please—” it is her mistake, her hand attempting to offer a touch in hopes of calming him, and this time he does not miss his mark. Her wrist, suddenly too delicate in his grasp, is that which he uses to throw her bodily and she meets the floor without pause. The planks are unyielding. The water is cold and splashes and she’s momentarily blinded. Her vulnerability is his invitation: hands, rough hands, grab her shoulders and force her down, down, down into pooling waves that suffocate and deny air. He’s speaking, still speaking, but the words are slurred beneath water. She can’t breathe. He holds her and speaks and she can’t breathe…

_“On your back, whore!” calloused hands, thick fingers, bruise and throw her to stone floors and dirt like an animal; she squirms, struggles, but the hands are stronger. “Let us see what lessons you have learned.”_

His hands are strong, too strong. She can’t breathe. Fingers are close, too close, to her throat. She _can’t_ breathe…

_Muscle and fat crushes her; he laughs at her plight, at the way she fights for freedom when the battle is long-lost. “A little spirit trying to flutter from her master.” He hits her. She cries out. He laughs. “We will attend to that defiant streak soon enough!”_

His hips are on hers; she can feel it, feel him. He moves, rocking to and fro. He forces her down, deeper when she cannot possibly sink further. She feels him. Feels his hips, grating against her through cloth barriers suddenly too thin. Pushing down. Bruising. Crushing.

_“Fight on! Fight on, little spirit!” he laughs and she cries and tears streak down bruising cheeks. “Fight and see how far your courage takes you. Fight! **Fight**!!”_

His grip abruptly loosens. Her nails have pierced skin and the shock startles hands from her throat and she surges upward to gulp air into starving lungs. He wrings injured hands, lunges once more, but she is ready with teeth bared and nails ready to draw blood. _Fight, fight, fight_ , and she will fight because she has suffered too much to die in the ruins of a madman’s ship. She will fight for what has been denied her all these years, all her life, and she’ll taste his blood on her tongue and feel it seep deep into her pores from now until Judgment Day. She will fight!

***

The surviving souls are assembled in quivering mass of bruised flesh and folded limbs. They kneel in uniform, flanked by blades at throats and crewmen itching for their pound of promised flesh. Still, they are absent one; it is possible the captain met his fate on the rocks, but guesswork is intolerable. All possible avenues are to be thoroughly investigated before any conclusions drawn, and if the captain is indeed dead and gone, it should be reported.

Maccus possesses no pocket watch—he is hardly an upstanding member of society with wealth to own such trinkets—but he needs not the tiny hands and telling numbers of gold and glass to know more than enough time has passed for the girl to make adequate search of the ship and report her findings. She was given a single, simple, task. Surely she is not such a mental incompetent that she’s managed to lose her bearings below deck. This is not some elaborate Navy vessel; its design is basic, mediocre at best. As such, there are only so many places a grown man might stow himself away. She should be back by now.

The captain does not appear to share his first mate’s unease. Of course, in all matters concerning the girl of late, the captain does not share much (if any) of his first mate’s opinions. It remains an unfortunate predicament, to be correct and yet commanded into silence. But Maccus has never fancied being anything less than right, in all matters, and Fate has a way of giving the worthy their due comeuppance in good time.

Still no sign of her.

His right hand drums fingers, impatient, at axe handle while eyes discretely peruse all possible entrances—down to the slightest little crevice—from whence the girl might appear. He’s a damned fool, of course, to think she might suddenly pop up and out like a curious eel in the reef. More importantly, he’s a damned fool to waste such attention on her. She isn’t worth the concern.

Five more minutes pass. Six survivors: two remain, their fate not yet decided, but they are destined for damnation and the particulars will not spare them, one way or another. Around him, the crew are utterly oblivious to the girl’s absence: their desires are for the precise moment when blades will taste blood and flesh will be flayed beneath trained hands. Only Clanker appears the exception, head drifting this way or that on occasion, scanning in a similar fashion, and then he refocuses attention.

Maccus feels the scowl when teeth pierce lip and blood trickles a familiar path into his mouth. Six minutes. _Where_ is—?

His head abruptly swivels, and eyes glare sharp into darkened corridors leading below. There are no screams or such expulsions of noise to be heard. No shapes can be seen moving in shadows. No unfriendly presence lurks about to offer threat or attempt confrontation. It is within, in the carefully-concealed passages of bone marrow and muscle and veins, that he feels the disturbance. It floods his senses, hot and blinding in fervor, and coats every sinew of awareness until there is no distraction permitted entry. It, this thing, this invisible force, demands his attention and he complies. A moment, if even, and then recognition.

_Blood._ He smells it, all of it. The metallic aroma burns deep in his nostrils, overpowering even bitter tang of sea-salt and human filth. He breathes deep, eagerly gathering the scent to his core. His eyes open, blind to all else that surrounds him, and he moves. Someone happens to be in his path; he shoves them aside and presses on. Not even the captain’s reprimand is enough to deter this force, this learned instinct, from leading him forward, always forward, until he finds the source.

***

Rage is a bitter emotion: a double-edged sword splitting mind and body into irreparable pieces; a deal with the devil bringing as many consequences as it might rewards. Containing its potency within the heart, shouldering it in silence, yet never permitting the briefest glimpse to taste daylight, is dangerous. Lena thinks, now, it is more dangerous than to allow anger a moment’s freedom. Rage knows how to inflict most damage, for it has nothing better in its imprisonment than to plot and plan and scheme all manner of horrendous crimes. It grates nerves with razor-teeth, presses for release even when it knows the time is not yet, not now, and when its time finally comes there is no hesitation or delay.

She has contained it too long. She knows this, because there is absolute relief as her hands clutch and claw, rip and tear, with all the composure of some ravenous beast. Hot blood slicks across her fingers and its texture is more vivid than fantasy could ever conjure. She feels triumph in place of revulsion; satisfaction in place of fear. So much of her blood spilt at the hands of lesser men; so often her body mercilessly bound and beaten, degraded, abused, without the slightest hint of care. No one pausing to think what scars might be carved upon young minds and hearts. No one reflecting what such actions might conceive in the way of rage, of hatred, of bloodlust.

She learned of tears, as a young child. Tears bring pain. Tears, open expressions of grief and suffering, bring more injustices. Little can be done to protect her body, even less to protect her heart, from primal desires of these animals parading about on two feet and dare christen themselves mankind, but physical wounds heal in time. And with the fading of open flesh into broken lines of pale red and pearl-pink, another sheet of ice cocoons her heart; protection is hers in an arctic barrier of hatred. Men care nothing for her heart. It is her body they want. It is her suffering they seek. Without access to her heart, she plays her roles as talented as any actress upon a stage. She has nothing more of pride, or dignity, and now she has sacrificed her humanity. But her heart remains her own.

Rage, unleashed by the feel of man’s hands once more seeking to destroy this hollow shell of a body, does her the greatest disservice. In its very makeup, Rage exposes her heart. The cocoon shatters, the dam breaks, and nothing can be contained. Her heart bleeds fresh and there is no staunching the flow. More so, she cares nothing for how vulnerable she makes herself in this moment. This fool signed his death warrant the moment he laid hands upon her, and she will deliver that which he deserves.

When arms take hold, wrapping fast around her from behind without even the decency of a warning (though she is uncertain, truth be told, she would have heard perhaps there were such warnings given and her ears were deaf to all but the blood rushing fast through her ears), instinct demands she fight, that she not be stolen away from her rightful earnings, and she obeys. Fingers bloodied and stained claw without finesse at the offending limbs; she catches the hint of a pained snarl, but it is no more audible than the last gasp of death. Whoever is here, with her, is strong: they lift her from an intended watery grave. She does not go quietly. She thrashes. Kicks. She fights. She fights for vengeance. She fights to harm as she was harmed. She scratches again, deeper this time. Her fingertips taste new blood and drink it into thirsty cells. In her ear, a voice speaks. Snarls, really, like an animal. An animal restraining an animal. She finds a certain poetic irony in it all.

“Stop it!” she knows that voice, knows his voice, and rage smolders anew in her blood.

“Let go of me!” he’s still twitching, this man, this filth-ridden waste of humanity, who tried to kill her, and she wants his death engrained on her memory. “Let go! I’ll kill him! I’ll _kill_ him!! Let me _go_!”

Her battle cry doesn’t come out as furious as she wants. Tears catch at the back of her aching throat, raw from protesting shrieks. A bleeding heart is not without grief, and she wasted the darker emotions—Hate, Rage, Fury, and their associates—in the moments before the first mate interfered. Now, amid her anger and senseless bursts of violent urges, he hears her tears. She curses him, several times over. She curses herself in silence, without words.

“I said, _stop_!” Maccus snarls, much too close to her throat. She jerks, away from that mouth of death, and kicks like a wild horse. She feels his arms moving, urgently, and she seeks escape in the first vulnerability granted in absence of a tight grip. It does her no good. He’s read her as she did not read him, and one hand locks tight around her throat while the other arm hoists her bodily from the security of tattered planks. Rage wilts when she needs to breathe, and she can only assume such is his tactic for ensuring her compliance because his grip doesn’t loosen even as he carries her away and ascends to the upper deck once more. Eyes watering, half-blind from pain and frustration and the urgent need to breathe, she only returns to awareness when he throws her off and unyielding planks catch her unkindly.

She thrashes, tangled in these damned skirts and tangled strands of hair much too-long, and in moment’s delay a new pair of hands fall upon her. Cold, slick, but accented with coral, the grip cuts thin lines into her arms as it hauls her upright. A third hand grabs her jaw, tight, and jerks upright. Maccus…and his eyes are exceptionally dark as they glare furiously. He’s looking for something. Whatever it is, she won’t let him have it. The walls around her heart are of her making, and she can summon them once more into erect defense just as she allowed their collapse.

“We have a fiery spirit among us, Bosun.” Maccus says, low and cold—but not nearly as cold as her blood runs, at the mention of her new captor’s identity. She knows of this man. Clanker warned her, whispered tales of the boatswain’s reputation…and these are the hands into which the first mate unceremoniously throws her.

“Give our little spirit a lesson in managing her temper.”

***

Never before have the Dutchman’s depths felt so cold. She expects such barren solitude from the brig, but it is not to rusted bars and prison walls that she is dragged. The boatswain takes her past identifiable places of torture, to a far reach of the ship wherein little trace of life exists. Even sea-life and fauna do not flourish here. It is a place of cold dark walls and a solitary lamp.

He wastes no time. In the same sweeping gesture as he hurls her against the wall, his hands seize fabric folds and wrench apart at the back. He cares not for cloth and garment but for the skin lying beneath. A chill hits, like Death exhaling soft over flesh. Lena feels eyes trace hungry over the sought prize; a moment later, fingers drag, chaffing, down to her lower spine. He pauses; there must be something in his way—and then she thinks of the dress, of perhaps some final threads desperately clinging to preserve modesty. He growls displeasure, and she isn’t prepared for the way he strips her bare in another sweeping movement. She bites back her pained cry, but with the taste of blood on her tongue.

Something solid, thick, and wet, glides over bare shoulder blades. One hand dances lightly to gather hair and push it over one shoulder. It’s a game. He is patient, unrushed, and the chill of her blood spreads deep into her chest. She knows his reputation. She’s heard the telling crack of his prized tool and the agonized cry of his prey. _Crack_ , scream, done. Quick even if not painless. This is different. He wants this to be—and the word leaves a bitter taste—special.

“Ye know,” his voice prompts a tremor: low, ravenous, bloodlust dripping from every word, “me thinks Maccus ‘as tak’n fancy to ye. ‘e’s never told me to give a special lesson before.

The delicate curve of her spine is of special interest to him; he runs another touch down its length, slower this time. “Aye,” again, he whispers, as though uncovering some grand mystery of the ages in this moment, “me think ‘e’s got quite the eye for ye, girl. Be sure ye don’t dis’point, eh?” his touch leaves her, and the whip hisses in the air, “Be a good lil’ one and make sure Maccus ‘ears his pet _scream_.”

_Crack!_ Cold leather and various trinkets of torture descend, sinking past barriers of flesh and muscle, deep, so deep she can feel each bit burrowing as if with hunger, and find the press of bone. Not even a pause to adjust, to accept the biting sting blossoming from her shoulder blade, and the whip obeys its master’s wanting for anguish. No desperate cling of flesh to bone can keep the two married, not under his command, and so she feels the first detachment with the splitting shriek of ruined nerves and hot streams of blood bubbling from a gaping wound.

She screams.


	6. Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor profanity and sexual content (or at least, implications thereof) in this chapter.

The Dutchman’s lower decks are the usual muddled ruckus of drunken slurs and incoherent shouts, but here the sky is nearer and silence is his. Waves below lap hungrily at tattered planks; the sound lingers, for a moment, then fades. What should be senseless noise and grating symphony on the ears, unnerving and disturbing, lulls his senses into distracted focus. Maccus stares at the waves, watches their rolling dance as best can be seen in darkness. To his left, the scrap of flint previously intended to sharpen his axe waits patiently though it has not seen proper use for nearly three hours.

He watches the ocean, silently admires her dance under starry night skies, and in this moment he remembers just why he eagerly chose a life upon the seas. Far away from cobbled England streets and land-bound society; a future surrounded by only the waves, miles and miles of turquoise sun-kissed glory. Once he sailed under the flag of respectability, sailor honored well enough among a legion of equally-noble fellows. Now, he is first mate upon a ship with no colors, no flag to wave in the light of dawn, but still he is a sailor of these seas. And in this moment, watching and remembering, he can almost forget any regret for swearing to this life, this ship and her captain.

_Thunk---thunk. Thunk---thunk. Thunk—_

He feels the captain’s dark eyes: tiger crouching in tall grass waiting to strike at prey. Any longing to remain in silent reverence of dancing waves passes quickly; he has served as first mate long enough to know better. One does not ignore the captain, whether he issues a verbal announcement of his presence or not.

“Seems we had a little trouble earlier.” The captain says, grand understatement it is, with tone perfectly neutral. Most people might think impassivity to be a kinder thing; Maccus knows differently. His captain only uses such mannerisms when he has something to say which, more often than not, the one to whom he speaks doesn’t want to hear. More so, Davy Jones is a captain with the Scots temper in his blood: he can shift from cultured sailor to devil with fiery rage without warning. “Perhaps you wish to enlighten me with details?”

“What has the girl told you?”

“I’ve not seen nor spoken to her.” Still, that damned tone, not a hint of inflection. “And I don’t much intend to. I fancy she didn’t order the Bosun on herself.”

The implications resonate with painful clarity, and Maccus feels his jaw tighten. The sting of indignation coats his nerves, not enough to spark fire but still enough to prick without relent. He is the first mate. He has never been demanded justification for setting the boatswain on the others—but therein lies the crux of the matter, no? None of the others are a girl of thirteen years.

He also neglected to observe and order a halt when the punishment seemed sufficient. Such might—could be—was possibly—his greatest error: the Bosun has not the reputation for controlling his bloodlust.

“You weren’t there, Captain.” He finally speaks, softly; frustration aside, there is a greater matter here to be discussed. “You didn’t see her. She ripped his throat out, with her bare hands. Screamed that she would kill him if I released her. Fought me like a wild animal, tooth and claw—quite literally to speak.” His arm still stings, the salt-wind hot on open wounds. “Her anger is well above anything we have dealt with aboard this ship. The fiercest storm rivals her rage—and still I question if such could outmatch what I saw today.”

A pause. “And you fancied a little private time with the Bosun would clear her head, did you?”

“I was forced to drag her away by the throat, Captain.” He frowns; why is none of this resonating with the proper severity? “Even the threat of physical injury fails to settle her fury. She cannot be tamed.”

Another pause. “So then…a woman’s wrath the likes of which Hell hath no?”

Yes, to be sure, and yet…he remembers the catch of tears, unmistakable no matter how hardened the heart bearing witness, in her throat. He sees across inner eye a face both young and old, rage somehow manifesting distinct traits of both with blinding clarity. Fury and Grief and…

—and nothing. “Whatever her reasons or motivation, they don’t excuse her behavior.” He straightens and stands at attention. “She demonstrated a blatant inability to curb her temper, and equally so a willingness to lash out without regard. She is, as I previously expressed, a liability, Captain. We cannot risk any further incidents to match today.”

“Hmm.”

Another indignant wave, and this one more prominent than the first. Must he repeat details with grandiose emphasis; exaggerate simply to bring awareness to the captain’s mind? What more must he do? The girl tore into a man’s throat with bare hands. She behaved like a feral beast, rabid and unmanageable.

In the time he’s been distracted with frustrated thoughts, the captain has lit his pipe and thin tendrils of bitter smoke curl into the air between them. Some long minutes pass before any more words are exchanged, and finally the captain appears to have an air of decisiveness about him. “Perhaps you’re right,” the captain says, and relief teases Maccus before promptly snuffed out with the next words, “but she still be young. Young, worn down by a cruel life…but still young. And the younger the blood, the better chance of being trained proper. She can yet be taught to keep herself in check; put that wild temper to better use.”

Frustration boils deep in the blood, and then the captain smiles, smiles at his first mate, and frustration becomes the least of Maccus’ emotions. “And you shall be the one to teach her.”

The humiliation is almost too much to bear. “With all due respect, sir,” he says, stiffly, “I have better things to do than look after a child.”

The captain chuckles, darkly, and takes from his pipe once more. “The girl be many things, Maccus, but mark me words to say, she be no child.”

He scowls and bites himself, again. “Might I respectfully point out you’ve just proven my point, sir?” he grips the right arm too hard and pinches an open wound for his troubles. “Thirteen years, she lived a life which, obviously, conceived a maelstrom of hatred and…an extreme propensity towards violence. Thirteen years cannot be so easily dismissed and forgotten, even aboard this ship.”

“Your point?”

The time for diplomacy is officially passed. “She is _out_ of her _mind_ , Captain.” He insists, with proper emphasis on the necessary words. “Thirteen years has made her an ill-tempered loose cannon with a rapidly-burning fuse. She is dangerous to any who might provoke her—intentional or not!”

The captain nods, turns away without great haste, and offers another smile. “Well then…that should make her a perfect match for _you_ , shouldn’t it?”

***

At night, these lower caverns become exceptionally dark. There are only shadows dancing around what little illumination a lone lantern can provide, and Lena rather thinks they mock the light for such failure.

Above her, she hears the crew in their drunken delight; below her, the ocean rocking with more force than usual. But around her is silence, no distraction to soothe an agonized mind, and so she is left to lean bodily against worn planks and try her damnedest to not pass out.

Her dress is relatively intact; ‘relatively’ being the word worthy of emphasis, for the entire back seam is ruined and without the proper tools, she sincerely doubts she can repair it. The garment lies a short distance away. She leaves it there. The strength to properly clothe herself pales against the splitting heat of what tattered remains still linger untouched from the boatswain’s mercy. Better to curl naked into a far corner, feel the carnage dry sticky on her skin, and hope for sleep. She has no fear of visitors: the entire crew saw her hauled away, throat in the first mate’s grip, for fate unknown. If anyone bothers to think she is alive, they will still know better than to make inquiry of their own accord.

Clanker’s words return, unkindly given circumstances, and she ponders them with a new perspective. Would it be better, then, to keep head bowed and move about meek and mild? Should she survive past this night—she does not yet have optimism enough to believe it as truth—ought she return to the little doll with hollow eyes and empty mind? Do as she’s told without qualm? Perhaps, but the skill will not come so easily when none of the crew is grabbing for cheap rags and wrenching them free to bare skin beneath. They expect her to work, to earn her keep, to conduct herself as a fellow sailor. They make crude remarks and mutter loud enough to resonate, but the fact stands that not a one has touched her. They don’t want her body. They want…they…want…

…What _do_ they want? And what is she to do for herself? If they don’t want to seek primal satisfaction between her legs, if they care nothing for pleasures of the flesh…she doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t know how to act, how to behave…how to think.

She thinks she wants to cry, but the tears don’t come. There are none left: she gave them all to the Bosun, even in silence. Still, the truth cuts deep in her heart and she burrows deeper into her little corner. If she isn’t to live as a whore, she doesn’t know how to live.

Silence, a moment more; she nearly lulls herself to sleep from simple exhaustion. Then, from darkness, a familiar gaze runs unwelcome paths over her naked flesh—oh, but it is really uninvited? She’s tired. Exhausted. She’s in a state of agony unparalleled by thirteen years’ memory. Truly, shamefully, she is past the point of caring.

“If you are here to kill me, please do so quickly.” She whispers; even her voice is absent any real strength. Too many screams, one after the other. The whole crew must have heard her shrieking. Fitting they should hear her cries when in physical distress and not when she was pleading for her life from a madman. “If you are here to take my final shred of dignity, you will have to adjust me according to your liking. I have no strength to accommodate you of my own will.”

Maccus frowns at her; she can feel it weigh heavy in his gaze. “I am not the sort of man with whom you are acquainted.” He moves closer, not because she can hear his steps but because she sees his silhouette in her peripheral. “I have no taste for a child’s body.”

Where she musters the energy, she doesn’t know—perhaps it comes from lingering frustration or just something about this man and his very self which provokes her to new heights—but still she turns, shifting upper body to face him, and gives her head a firm shake. It tosses matted golden streams from their place and bares enough to make the desired point. “I have bled since my twelfth year, and your subordinates on frequent occasion take notice of my breasts. Kindly do not look at me and act as though I am some fresh-faced little lamb brought in for slaughter. I have had men like you—and lesser so—force themselves between my legs for years.”

He pauses; he still looks upon her, but without any hint of lust. It frustrates her, for reasons she cannot identify. Does she want this man? No, of course not: she has never wanted any of the men. It isn’t a matter of _wanting_ him. She wants him to make use of her in the only way she understands. And then, preferably, snap her neck.

“How many years?” he asks. The question surprises her. She honestly didn’t think he cared enough to know.

“My first was a week after my ninth year.” Briefly, she thinks to part her thighs and drive the point further, but fails to summon the energy as before. “The Master took me in the same fashion that a dog takes a bitch in the streets. He then handed me off to five of his most trusted associates—compensation for some job well done. They handled me in a similar fashion. When it was finished, they left me to lie in a pool of my own blood and their filth. I remember little after that…only that I could not walk for some long weeks. Of course, when you are needed more on your back than your feet, such concerns are irrelevant.”

Something strange changes in his demeanor: only moments ago, he appeared resigned and worn down, deep to the bones, with frustration of unknown origins (she likely is a contributor in some fashion or another, but she doesn’t care to ask to what extent), yet now he draws closer and leans against some distant wall. She can’t really see in this light.

“Where are your parents?” Strange indeed: he actually sounds curious.

“I have none.” She whispers. “No mother. No father. And even if I did…” a bitter smile, “…what self-respecting folk would claim me as their own? I have been had on floorboards, bent over bedposts, and crouched on bended knee, all for man’s desire. Parents want sweet gentle virgins to carry on their name, not wretched little whores.”

Her words, now, seem to strike a chord with him and he abruptly straightens, steps forward, and whatever little pity was once present is a distant memory. “Stand up.”

“I cannot.”

“You will.”

She doesn’t even have the energy to scowl at him, but her tone carries a hard edge. “Do you know how many times he struck me? No,” she answers, before he can, “you do not, because you did not stay to watch. Whether you did not care to or the option conveniently evaded your conscious thought, I do not care. The point remains, you let him loose, a rabid beast without its master, and he cleaved fifty stripes of flesh from my bones. I assure you, sir, the greater miracle here is that I am aware enough to carry on this conversation. I cannot and will not stand, and the only circumstance which might change this is for the gods to reach down and pluck me upright in their hands, or for you to do it with your own.”

A pause, brief, and then she sighs. “If you fear another attack on your person, do not. I have been unable to move my arms since he drew three lashes across my shoulder blades.”

He starts forward, and a moment passes wherein she thinks he does indeed intend to hoist her from this huddled stance. Then he pauses, huffs audible frustration, and paces slowly, tight movements left and right. “You were so eager to accept a new life,” he says; he does not even need to finish the thought, and she feels anger prick a steady path along her nerves, “yet you speak of the past.”

“I wonder why.” She’s certain, from the irritated glare he provides, there was more intended, but she has her own piece to say and she’ll say it before completely losing consciousness. “Perhaps it stems from this crew’s pleasure in reminding me, incessantly, of my past. I keep low to the deck, scrubbing like a slave, and still they whisper while stepping over me. How pretty I must look on my back with legs spread wide. How many ways these legs of mine could be made useful. Again, and again, and again, and _again_. Indeed, sir, I do wonder just why I continue to speak of the past.”

His scowl doesn’t fade. “You do not belong to him anymore. You belong to the captain, by your own will and volition.”

“And yet I will always belong to the Master.” A lock of hair falls in her eyes; it is streaked dark with blood. “His is the voice haunting dreams which should otherwise be empty and restful. His words now creep cold and unfeeling from those I should freely call my crewmates. And today…” her voice catches, against her will, “…today, his were the hands forcing me into a watery grave, suffocating my breath, taking full advantage of my vulnerability, while his hips bruised mine and once more he raped me even through clothing barriers. That man—that _animal_ —was completely stripped of sanity: he struck me without provocation, and when I attempted to lay unthreatening hands upon him, he eagerly sought to choke the life from me. He was shouting, howling like a wild beast. I was crying out for help, for anyone to come and assist me. In my desperation, I even prayed for _you_ to come, but you did not. You only came when I clawed my way to freedom, and then you punished me for _your_ negligence.”

It surprises her, to feel tears burn without falling. She truly thought they were spent. But no…it seems she still has a few yet to shed. “I am more than aware you despise me, sir,” Maccus’ face blurs, but it is all the better; she has no desire to see the details of his expression right now, “and my behavior was barbaric, to say the least. But it was by your command that I went, unaccompanied, to retrieve a madman. And your ears fell deaf to my pleading cries. If your only desire was to kill me, better that I had left myself to his mercy when you possess none.”

She blinks. Somehow, miraculously, no tears follow. Perhaps they have retreated once more when anger stirs her blood hot. “No matter how poorly I behaved, you responded with equal barbarism.” She whispers, pleased when venom coats her words, not grief. “I did _not_ deserve this.”

Enough illumination highlights his expression that she can see the tightening of his jaw. Then he exhales slowly. “The captain shares your sentiment.” He says, in the tone of one greatly displeased to admit such fact. “Nor is it his intention for you to die. Of course, such is the Dutchman’s way: you will suffer beyond imagination, and never perish.”

“You take your appointed tasks very seriously, then.” She replies, bitterly.

“Even when they may prove the bane of my existence.” He retorts. When she frowns, confused, he continues, “You, by the captain’s command, are now among my appointed tasks. Hence there being no point to wanting you dead.”

Her fingers clench, deep in her lap. “You wanted me dead when you delivered me into the boatswain’s hands, sir. It was only thereafter the captain then deposited me in yours. Do not lie to me and sugar-coat your intentions.”

“You are so certain of this fact.” He says, after a pause. “That I want you dead.”

“Of course.” Her temple leans a little deeper into the wall, resting a head much too heavy against its support. “Whether you wish to indulge your physical wants first, then kill me, or not…I don’t much care. Do as you will: you already do, in all things.”

His frustration is far more audible this time. “ _Enough_ with that talk!” she’s both surprised and distantly pleased to get such a rise out of him; he truly must pride himself on abstinence. “Do you _want_ me to rape you, like every other vile cretin in your life?”

Her head is too heavy, too weary, to turn and properly regard him. She settles for roving her gaze, as best can be done, and letting silence communicate the rest. The pause is longer this time, tension coiled thick between them, and suddenly his scowl fades to an expression she has never seen before. He looks…shocked. Were he less of a hardened heart, she might think he even presents as horrified.

“You do.” He says, for once speaking without a cold hiss veiling threats on his tongue. “That’s exactly what you want.”

She parts lips, words intended on her tongue, and then the room tilts precariously. What little sense of balance she previously possessed abruptly withers; the wall’s support wanes and ultimately fails her. She slumps to the left, too far for hope of regaining her stance, and the room goes black.

***

He catches her, half a second before the ruined floor does, driven by an instinct he’s almost forgotten: one borne from the years wherein he bore the look of a refined gentleman, cultured and of perfect mannerisms. Fair ladies swooning in the heat of high noon were hardly uncommon an occurrence, and every lad worth proper upbringing was educated in the correct manner which such lovely creatures ought to be caught and likely brought indoors for shade, smelling salts, and a cup of tea. More often than not, it was a silly little game these women played. They may have been ensconced in hero’s arms, but it was their wiles in which the men were truly caught.

Even in exhaustion, the girl responds with a low whine once his arm is secured around her back. Maccus frowns, eases her upright without effort—she is young, terribly thin, and weightless—and sees the source of her sudden ailment.

She exaggerated not to declare fifty lashes. He swallows, more tightly than he cares for (after all, such implies guilt for negligence of which she accused him and of which he may or may not in fact have committed), and studies the damage for a pregnant pause. He recalls fleeting glimpses of her back, slivers exposed through fraying seams of her dress, before this night: skin smooth and white and flawless, not unlike a little china doll. There is no such perfection left, now. Strips of flesh gone and removed, and they left gaping wounds of red to mark their memory. What skin remains intact is streaked liberally with the murky brown of dried blood; the wounds themselves still burn hot when he ghosts a touch, intersecting lines of angry red over white.

_That’s exactly what you want…_ his own words haunt, lingering on the air upon which they were spoken. Hers echo louder, deep in his ears: _“Whether you wish to indulge your physical wants first, then kill me, or not…I don’t much care.”_ Rape her. Kill her. In this order.

She is bears more damage than he thought.

A bit of awkward maneuvering follows for a short time; the supplies he needs are not within easy reach, not in this dark cavern of the ship’s core, and though she is indeed weightless, her body is limp, as much rigidity as poor girl’s ragdoll. It takes effort and a bit of unorthodox creativity, but he finally procures what is necessary and settles in place, as comfortably as can be on these deck floors. The left arm is useless for this task, so it finds purpose in keeping her semi-upright—but more importantly, leaning forward to provide full access to her mangled skin.

(Her breasts press soft to his forearm, in this position. There is no way around it, and Maccus prides himself on self-control. It’s easy enough to ignore the pleasant distraction of warm flesh, so close to himself, for arousal of any kind is impossible when faced with stark brutality.)

With his right hand, the good one not yet deprived of use, he soaks a rag. Then he brings it upward, still dripping, and waits for the inevitable even as he begins to clean around the damage. No matter how exhausted she is, it will not last long. The salt water against fresh wounds will be a rude awakening.

She does indeed revive at first touch, but not with shrieking dramatics. From her throat, a sharp whine not unlike that of a wounded animal breaks silence; her shoulders jerk, once…twice…each time in direct response to the rag gliding across her skin. By the fourth time, he is obliged to pause because her constant movements interrupt his intended course and the rag is rubbing unkindly across jagged lines of dark red.

“Stop.” He says, quietly, and tries again. Another quake of limbs, this time more pronounced, and she cries out softly. “Lena, _stop_.” (Her name falls off the tongue too quickly, too easily, and he won’t consider that it tasted almost pleasant on his lips.) “You have got to stop moving. You’ll only make it worse.”

Silence. A moment’s reprieve while he resumes work, this time with the feel of her limbs rigid, fighting instinct to escape the source of discomfort. Then, a shuddering sigh and low whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

“These wounds need cleaning.” He says, remotely surprised this requires explanation. Perhaps her master did not have her previous wounds tended to and nursed before inflicting them once again. “Any infection will fester, and what you have suffered tonight will seem a kinder option.”

“Not that.” She huffs, not as vehemently as she likely would, given different circumstances. “ _This_. Why pretend you—” a low sound, equally pained as those before it, “—care?”

He does not pause in the task, but allows him a moment to think without immediate response. The red rivers run diluted with salty streams, yet still dark against the pallor of her skin. He thinks again of china dolls in little shops, exterior windows lined with small girls pleading with parents to have one of their own. But a china doll could never feel so warm.

“Why are you so convinced I want you dead?” He soaks the rag once more; the water darkens within its round enclosure—a small bowl encrusted nearly beyond recognition, but it serves the purpose.

“Why would you not?” she quivers at the renewed touch, this one at her upper right arm. Maccus thinks, more likely than not, small marks such as these were ghosting casualties of the Bosun’s enthusiasm: unintentional, random cast-off to match the splattering of blood. “I have openly, unapologetically, disrespected you and your authority. I attacked you; caused you physical injury. Had I behaved in—” she grits her teeth, briefly, “—in such a manner toward the Master, he would have slit my throat without pause. Even a favored whore can fall from her pedestal if she does not mind her tongue.”

“And yet, knowing this, and so blatantly likening me to your master,” his left arm aches, a little, but he doesn’t dare move it; without the support to keep her upright, she’ll sprawl across his lap in half a second, “you did not make the conscious effort to mind your tongue. Instead, you went quite out of your way to affront and provoke, at every possible opportunity.” A short pause, while he rinses the cloth yet again, frowning a bit at how much blood has been spilled, “You behave like one who _wants_ to die.”

The rag brushes what likely is the worst injury of the lot: a particularly violent gash across her shoulder blades. A closer inspection reveals it to be the site of two, possibly three, strikes centered in the same patch of vulnerable flesh. His frown deepens. _“I have been unable to move my arms since he drew three lashes across my shoulder blades.”_ Blood is stained especially dark here, and when he applies pressure to clean, Lena cries out, once more like a wounded beast lamenting such lingering torment, and he starts when her hand abruptly clutches his side. The contact is unexpected, though not nearly as much as her brow presses deep at his chest. She’s trembling, each breath sharp and erratic. And then he sees the fresh pulse of blood streaking hot down her spine. The salt water must be especially agonizing here.

She swallows, twice. Her head does not shift from its prostrate angle, but he hears her voice whisper after a pause, “Have I not already made my desire obvious to you?”

“…Why?” he gives her a reprieve from the rag, at least until the bleeding stops and he determines just how to clean this wound without opening the dam to her life source again and again.

The grip on his side, near the ribcage, tightens a bit. Unlike earlier, she isn’t using fingernails but the pads of each finger to maintain her grip. She deliberately avoids causing him further injury. This sudden consideration for his wellbeing is…interesting. Odd, unexpected, but…interesting.

“Because I do not know how live this way.” Her voice trembles, cracks, and though no tears fall against his skin—inevitable, as physically close as they are in this moment—they coat her throat and saturate every breath of every word. “I do not know what you expect of me. What _anyone_ expects of me. I have…I lived in Singapore all my life. There are no memories beyond the Master, and what he did to me…”

She quakes again, though he has not touched her, and she curls closer, pressing tighter to his chest. For a fleeting moment, he thinks of her earlier words and that wretched proposition, wonders if perhaps this is her way of furthering the point…but her next sounds are whimpers and he dismisses the thought. Seduction cannot come to pass when pain demands full attention.

The spell passes, after a time; she slumps more fully against him, without a complaint for the barnacles digging into sensitive flesh. “…I was not born a whore. I learned that life, how to survive and not slit my wrists when the degradation and humiliation proved overwhelming. I…I think I could learn this life, too. But I cannot learn it alone.”

Her head shifts, ascending the short distance from his chest to shoulder. She still does not look to meet his gaze, and he wonders if it is from uncertainty of what she will find in his expression (he is not entirely sure, himself, what is there to be seen) or if her neck, like the rest of her, is simply in too much pain for strenuous movement. He thinks it may likely be the latter. “You say the captain has placed me in your charge, and so it is. He is my captain now, by my choosing; I will not refuse him. And…I truly have no choice but to obey your command. The captain has ensured it. You, in turn…” another pause; exhaustion must be settling in once more, “…You can continue to regard me as you have, with the merciless hand and cruel words of a slave-master. And I will obey you because no other option is available to me, and my hate will fester deeper than any wound of the body ever could. In time, it will consume me and claim my sanity.”

He sighs, slowly, and follows the unspoken prompt. “Or…?”

Silence follows. He nearly tilts his head to look and see if she has succumbed to her body’s demand for rest and healing, then she saves him the trouble. “Or you can come to me as a teacher, and teach me. Show me what it is you expect of me. Show me how to live in this life, on this ship, as one of the crew.”

There is nothing more to be said. He feels her go limp, body spent entirely. Her words linger longer than he might like: in them is a blatant demand to be something other than what he is, what he has always been. He is not a teacher. He is a commander with no illusions of himself as to his temperament, one which borders on tyrannical on the best of days. It is not in his blood to educate, with the patience necessary and the diligence to not dismiss a wayward pupil as lost cause within a few short hours of failure.

But the captain placed her in his charge. To be retrained, to be taught differently, and she has just proposed the same without a hint of reluctance. Perhaps it is the physical damage and mental exhaustion speaking in place of rational thought, but if it isn’t…if she was truly sincere…

The proximity, her body finding rest against his, makes him uncomfortable. But the tiniest drop of pity runs thick in his veins and he doesn’t have the energy to relocate her. So he leans into the wall. And he thinks.


	7. Prize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maccus gains unexpectedly new perspective on his reluctant charge.

The days pass in slurred moments of coherency, some more lucid than others, but on whole it all amounts to nothing but fragmented memories. She recalls Clanker at her side, forcing bits of fish past reluctant lips with mutterings about “wastin’ away wit’out somethin’ in yer belly”. She thinks, more than once, to be thirsty for lack of hydration but never actually feels a need for water. The sounds of daily life aboard the ship pass above her and around her. Every shuffle, every spoken word, everything is an echo to her ears. She wonders often if she is dead and her spirit remains bound here, tethered in place by her vow.

Then a hand shoves, right at the shoulder blades, and reality bursts forward, clarity blinding in the scorch of agony from such thoughtless contact at the direct site of her worst injury. Her throat suddenly feels raw, hoarse. Her ears ring. Someone’s coming—she can her the footsteps thundering nearby—and suddenly Clanker is there, with her, a soothing touch to her brow contrasting plainly with the irate scrape of his tone.

(She screamed. That’s why he came so quickly.)

He’s arguing with someone. She doesn’t recognize the other voice. But, truthfully, she only recognizes Clanker because he’s been at her side without fail for hours, or days, or maybe it’s been weeks. So clouded and drunk on the bitter drink of physical suffering, she doubts her mind can register even the captain’s voice, should she hear it now.

“—yer to leave the lass be, ‘til told otherwise.” Clanker is saying; she feels the protection of his shadow, keeping her safe, keeping her close, and she wants to curl into it like a blanket. “Maccus’ orders. Ye don’ like it? Take it up with ‘im.”

_Maccus._

Her only true memories are of the first mate, and that horrible night. His voice, the last thing heard before darkness seized her, and his arms, the last fleeting moment of awareness in those hours. He carried her from the dark and dank. Took her to this place, the main sleeping quarters where she has laid, little more than a cripple, for all this time.

He carried her. She has never been carried, not within the security of two capable arms. He carried her.

The other crewman calls her a waste of space. It’s a familiar term of endearment. She’s heard it before. But Clanker takes it as a new insult, with a heavy forward step and deep-throated growl promising the unmentionable should such language be used at her again. He defends her honor when she has none. Maccus carries her like a human being, worthy of some dignity, when she is not and does not deserve such things.

She wants to die. To close her eyes and never wake up. _Please, God, if You exist…just let me die._

She must fall asleep again, though there is no distinction between the conscious and unconscious hours. When she opens her eyes, unaware of even closing them (perhaps she never opened them to begin with), the cabin is dark. The sounds of drinking and gambling fill the air, muffled by distance and the swirl of hot blood in her ears, perpetually churned by the splintering sensation relentless along her damaged skin. In the corner, a short distance away, she hears sounds of life: the slow rhythm of breath, brief shifting movements…the scrape of flint on steel.

“How long have you been here?” she whispers. It is astonishing to hear her voice. She nearly forgot its sound.

“Long enough.” Maccus answers; the moon is out, and through cracks in walls and open hatches his elongated skull is highlighted in pale rays. He sets the flint and axe aside, then steps closer. A rag is draped over the left arm and the right hand carries a bowl. Her brow wrinkles, and her limbs curl inward. The muscles carry greater memory than her head, at this point. They know what is to come, and they don’t want it.

Her demeanor does not go unnoticed, but the interpretation falls short. “I’ll get Clanker to handle this.” He says, and starts for the stairs. She forces herself upright, at least halfway, and bites back a pained cry for the trouble.

“No!” too sharp, too abrupt; she swallows and tries again, softer, “Please. It isn’t you. I just…it hurts.”

“It’s supposed to hurt.” He says, bluntly, but doesn’t leave her. She chooses to take what small comfort can be found in his presence, in the consistent manner in which he has tended to her injuries, and ignore his complete lack of empathy. “But it needs to be done. Now, I’m sure Clanker—”

“I don’t _want_ anyone else!” she’s snapping at him, yes, but the sudden movement has grated her nerves and she is fairly certain the upper back bleeds fresh, thanks to her stupidity. She may be cross and unladylike (if she can ever be called a lady), but it stills remains his fault that she’s in this much pain and she won’t let him forget it anytime soon. A moment, a few deep breaths, and she huffs resignation. “I’m sorry. I don’t want anyone else to…see me like this. And Clanker…he doesn’t…he has treated me with great kindness, but he doesn’t…do it right.”

She curses the Master, and her upbringing, that every word out of her mouth sounds like some botched seduction attempt. It isn’t, it shouldn’t be, and perhaps it doesn’t even come across as such (from the way Maccus approaches her, now, without a hint of disgust for her babbling, she hesitantly assumes the latter), but to her ears, she sounds like a whore stroking egos. It is disgusting.

He sighs, more a huff of discontent than anything, and beckons her with a single gesture. She refuses to let herself linger on the insult, being summoned like a dog, and forces weak limbs to cooperate. Fortunately, he wants her on bended knee, so if she’s reduced to crawling like a mutt, it makes no difference to him.

Her hands fist, tight, in her lap. She wills herself to not scream or cry, at least not that he can hear; there is nothing she can do for the tears dribbling down her cheeks. The salt water stings viciously in her wounds. By comparison, the chaff of his skin on hers is comforting. Soothing, even.

He loses a sharp growl, breaking silence, and mutters a curse even she cringes to hear, perhaps strictly because it came from him and she wasn’t sure, prior to this moment, he even knew how to be vulgar. “You’re not healing worth a damn.”

He sounds displeased, mostly with himself. She takes satisfaction in this, but not much. The salt water burning old paths anew across skin overwhelms what little pleasure she might otherwise take in his vocalized shortcomings.

Pain is a distraction: it diverts her awareness from how quickly time flies until it is already gone and Maccus sets the rag aside with a low curse and an air of finality. She jerks fabric to cover her breast, careful to avoid any contact with the cleaned areas, and turns quickly. “I want to work.”

Her blurted declaration makes him pause, but not for long. “Absolutely not.”

She frowns. “You cannot expect me to lie here, naked, on my belly, like—”

“—Finish that with any reference to ‘whore’ and I will strike you across the face.” his face is entirely impassive, glaring (albeit without his usual disdain for her presence), and she elects to take the threat seriously.

“My point remains,” she continues, slowly, “I grow bored. Restless. Day after day, week after week; this entire affair is painfully tiresome.”

“Your ability to become bored with physical suffering is noted with due admiration.” Maccus says, in the tone of one entirely unimpressed and certainly not admiring. “You will stay here and continue to heal until I otherwise instruct.”

“Send me back to the cannons!” she protests, forcing herself upright, on unsteady legs, before he can make an intended departure. He does not pause, but instead offers a humorous chuckle.

“So you can bleed yourself out and leave someone else to clean it all?”

She scowls. “The cannons, the decks—I will repair lines, seated perfectly still at the rail!”

(Desperate, yes, but such times demand similar measures and she isn’t entirely above prostrating herself at his feet if it might hope to earn that which she seeks.)

“I am wholly unsure of how else to explain this to you,” he says, with a look she does not appreciate, “but I shall make a valiant attempt: your back is hanging by thin sinews of dignity, nothing more. The slightest physical movement will aggravate the damage. You are sooner to bleed dry before a single line is mended. Now, for the _last time_ , stay here and rest.”

“I cannot rest.” She bites out, through jaw clenched and teeth gritted (how much is from the pain and how much from his obstinate behavior, who knows?). “I am sooner to lose my mind trapped in this purgatory of commanded suspension than kill myself mending a bloody line! _Please!_ Give me some task, no matter how menial, to call my own!”

He studies her, in a way he has not before. Silence, for a beat; he breaks it with the quiet sigh of leaning against a wall. “You speak well for a coveted slave.” He says, at length. The implication is there, and she might otherwise let him assume without confirmation if not for the tentative possibility this could further her cause.

“The Master’s wife was a compassionate woman.” She states, succinctly. “And not as ignorant as her husband believed when he suffered her to share his bed and birth his sons.”

“She took fancy to a white-skinned child?”

It is her turn to pause, though not for long. The fight is lost: he will not be moved by her pleadings on the matter, and this is simply his way of learning more details of a past she takes great pains to hide. A moment of deciding whether she wants to divulge this tiny bit of truth ends with a resigned sigh. She forgets her circumstances, long enough to push her hair from tired eyes and lose her cloth shield with the movement.

(It does not matter, really: he has seen her naked before.)

“The Master took her first and only daughter as soon as she came out.” Lena murmurs, unapologetic in her bare flesh. “She barely took one breath before he strangled her with a single hand and gave her to the dogs.”

He actually frowns, confused. “How do you know this?”

“She told me.”

“Why?”

Her face tightens. “I am tired, sir.” She carefully returns to the hammock and rolls upon her belly. “If you would be so kind as to leave me, I shall resume work as a feeble wretch.”

If it happened to be his hand which covered her lower half, preserving what little modesty she still has, she pretended to not notice.

***

By the fourth week, she officially chooses defiance.

Opportunity arrives when news of wreckage, another poor vessel caught in the reef without successful escape, echoes above and stirs strength in her bones. The dress, what little remains, lies nearby and she nearly bites her tongue in half while forcing uncooperative limbs into fabric confines. The necessity, and her own desperation to breathe, outmatches pain. She creeps, silent as a mouse, from lower decks to upper. Most of the crew has already made departure, but her arrival amongst them will draw attention should she try for the main deck of this poor ship lying dismembered atop the waves.

But there is a gaping hole in the lower regions, where cargo would be stored. She can see broken crates floating along their sorry way, bleeding out from the injury. Such an opening means she does not need to descend from above when she can enter from below. Even if that means…

There’s no other option.

She draws a tight breath, exhales slowly, and steels her nerves. Then she drops herself over the rail and into the welcoming torture of salt-seas.

*** 

Her back is bleeding again, but such is the very least of her concerns.

“Curiosity kills th’ cat, ye know.” Koleniko says. His movements harken back to the dogs, strayed and abandoned, willing to kill each other for a next meal and equally willing to make the other a meal: slow, pacing, circling her with leisure. He is a cat playing with his food. She has the urge to lash out—but clenches fists and whispers words of affirmation.

(After all, she has seen curiosity kill many cats. In ways she would rather not recall.)

His blade pricks, unkindly, at bloodied shoulder blades. It is not a dull weapon. Through it, he teases open wounds without mercy and she fights tears before they damn her as the weakling which this crew already considers her. “Look at me,” he breathes, low in her ear, “when ye ‘ave somethin’ to say, girl.”

Anger, poking at the nerves, but she settles for a clenched jaw and forces herself to face him: this wretched man with a face mangled by creatures for which she has no name but can only wonder if they are as hideous in life as they are protruding from this man’s flesh. “I said, I know,” she replies, very quietly, “but one never knows what might be found unless you look.”

His mouth lifts in an unpleasant grimace; perhaps a leering smirk. “Runnin’ errands for Maccus, are ye?” she frowns, nearly confused and prepared to advise him of the first mate’s unawareness as to her presence, only to take a closer look and realize her mistake. “Or are ye provin’ to be a disobedient lil’ pet? Me thinks, the latter.”

The blade twists, sharp, and her only saving grace is the nearby crates which suffer under a violent grasp before she shrieks. “We all be wondr’ng,” he whispers, while her skin bleeds fresh wounds and that horrible eye stares vacantly while the other peers at her like a starving mutt, “We ‘eard ye screamin’. Shriek and wail like a cat ‘n heat. But did ye _beg_ for it, girl? Did yer old mast’r give ye taste for _pain_?”

_Focus on the pain…focus on the pain…focus_ —but her resolve cracks, pathetically weak, when his words seep too deep, more poisonous than salt to ravaged flesh, and she strikes him, hard. The pin-like needles in his cheek respond accordingly, as does the furious glare he bestows upon her. It does not stop her.

“I beg for nothing.” She snarls. He responds with a test, dragging the blade down a spinal column all-but exposed to the bare bone and finishing with a deliberate cut at the base. She flinches, unavoidable, but does not cower. “And I certainly do not beg from a man.”

His earlier fury fades like a passing cloud. Now he smirks and returns the blade to his waist. “Plenty o’ us’ll make ye beg, in time,” he promises; his hand pats her, roughly, on the cheek in some mockery of affectionate gestures, “an’ if ‘e had a bit o’ sense, Maccus’d do jus’ that.”

She waits; waits until his heavy steps fade and leave in her silence once more. Wounds sting in the open air, salt carried from sea by the winds. Blood rushes through her ears, a resounding tempo. …Then, the _crack_ of fists atop wooden crate, and the blow splits it in half. Straw spills out, smeared in addition to bruises and blood and damaged skin. She wipes both hands against her skirt and growls incoherent words. Curse her temper—and damn this crew for inspiring it day and night!

…but what is this?

Discolored cloths: tucked to form pouches, laid in uniform rows of eight. Her outburst disturbed them only slightly; they were packed with care, cushioned firm in straw. She plucks one from the rest, unfolds the cloth, and within lies a crude treasure: blades of flint and hilts of stone. Rather primitive in design, actually, but she supposes anything could be deadly enough in the right hands.

Still…it seems odd to take such care with this lot. No craftsman worth his reputation would claim them as his own work, and no ranking soldier would have use for them. These are weapons of little boys playing to the death in dirty streets.

—there is something buried here. Something more, hidden deep below more straw and—wooden planks? A crate built within a crate?

She drops to her knees, one of the flint-blades in hand, and hacks gracelessly at the uncovered barrier. Wood splinters, messy gashes carved under her urgency. Finally, a cavern revealed; she darts a hand inside, grabs for the first thing to brush fingertips, and pulls. It comes to her without resistance and shines in pale daylight.

She reaches for another.

***

The lass is a sight, to be sure: sweat-streaked, hair tussled careless and smeared across skin, and spattered with straw. But her eyes are bright (remarkable for someone missing half her hide) and her arms are full. Whether from simple curiosity or dry amusement at the girl’s obvious excitement, the captain beckons her forward while the others watch on.

Clanker, for his part, is obliged to look away for a moment when her back comes into view: the skin is a wretched sight (what’s left of it), all red and enflamed with the salt-air, murky red trails betraying more bloodshed throughout the day. Her hair is stuck to some of the wounds. He wonders if it’s too soon to suggest cutting away the thick mess of curls before it becomes more trouble than is worth.

She lowers to her knees, respectful and submissive. Her arms loose their spoils, spills over her lap, over the deck, and the captain leans closer. His amusement fades to, but his established standards, what constitutes a bit of awe. Prompted by such an extraordinary expression, the others follow. Clanker is among them, standing closest to her side.

Daggers, twelve total, and three swords: these are finely-crafted blades, their points tapered and sharpened, with cross-guards of silver and gold. These are items worthy of Royal sailors, formed by well-paid blacksmiths who worked night-and-day until every detail was perfect. These are not the sort of treasures belonging in the hands of the Dutchman’s damned.

Not that such a detail stops them.

“Well done, lass.” The captain says. He holds a sword in his hands, rolling it between fingers with a critical eye. “And just how did you happen upon this treasure trove, hmm?”

She smiles, a rather demure little curve of lips dry and chapped. “A child’s curiosity knows no bounds, Captain.”

He smirks. “Coy lil’ wretch.” There is otherwise unheard-of air of affection in his words, but before anyone can think much of it, the captain is all-business and barking orders at his crew, peppered with crude commentary about wasting time when they’ve better things to do. Clanker, quietly, pats her shoulder and offers a brief nod.

He thinks she might have nearly replied with a smile, were it not for the first mate approaching in that very instant. The tall mate has both arms folded tight over his chest and presently wears a look which promises the lass she is in very serious trouble.

“Back on the ship.” He grinds out, teeth splintering lip with each word. “ _Now_.”

Clanker watches, fearful of the first mate barking another command for the Bosun…but nothing of the sort follows; the two simply disappear into the depths with a heavy air of silence. The girl doesn’t offer a word. Clanker wonders if it’s from fear, or if the Bosun whipped her defiance clean off her bones.

(Maybe both.)

He pauses a moment more, then stoops to collect the spoils. No need for the first mate’s foul mood to ruin a perfectly good loot.

***

“Was there some word of my direct order which missed your comprehension?”

“No.”

“And yet you, _once again_ , flagrantly disobeyed me.”

“Yes, but—”

“So what, then, do you believe is your fitting punishment?”

“I just—”

“ _Answer_ the question!” his voice lifts, elevated in a way which betrays his rising frustration, “You expressed such displeasure with my chosen course of action last time; it’s only fitting you—”

“—Oh, will you _shut it_ and listen to me!”

Maccus pauses, genuinely started by such an outburst from such a small, weak, pink-faced little child. (He’ll ignore the inappropriateness of christening her ‘weak’ when he has an abundance of evidence to the contrary.) She stands, a short distance away, and glares with eyes much too bright. Her brow is slicked with sweat. Privately, he wonders if a fever has not begun to set in.

“This was not about defying you.” The girl says, with such sincerity that he cannot help but believe her. “I have been entirely useless these past weeks. For the sake of argument, I shall pretend your insistence on keeping me on bedrest to be some semblance of concern on your part—please do not correct me, in the great likelihood I am mistaken—and for that I am grateful.”

“Are you?” he returns, with an unimpressed tone. She scowls, briefly, then steps closer. Her defiance of personal boundaries is…interesting. Most of the crew gives him a wide berth. She stands mere inches from him, head tilted high to compensate for a generous height difference, and barely blinks.

Insolent brat.

“For the sake of argument,” she quips, with a humorless smirk, then continues, “I offered you a proposal, that night…do you remember?”

He pauses. “I do.”

“Then you remember I offered myself to you as a willing student.” Her voice softens, slightly. “Promised to work under your tutelage without protests, to become that which you expected of me.”

“…You sound as though you’re about to make a point.”

The girl straightens and only slightly winces for it. “You do not strike me as the sort of man who wants a student willing to take the easy way in life.” She murmurs. “In fact, you are not the sort of man who wants a student at all. It is not your way, and you were extraordinarily uncomfortable with my proposal. Had I not lost consciousness in that exact moment, I am certain you would have informed me, with your characteristic diplomacy, just what you thought of my offer. Yet, you have said no word against it for the past weeks…which tells me you are no longer as opposed to the matter as you once were.”

“You have deviated from whatever point you might have made.”

“My _point_ ,” she says, with a bite in her throat, “is that, if you are made to take on a student, you will not settle for some pathetic little wretch who is content to take the easy way in life. You want someone who will force herself to get back up and do what needs to be done. You want someone who will demand a challenge and never question a detail of it, strictly because she holds a drop of faith in the assurance that you would not put it before her if it would not accomplish the end goal. Whether you want to admit it, sir,” she steps even closer, “you _want_ me to defy you. You want it, because defiance means I do not, will not, and will never surrender.”

Silence settles in the air: oddly calm, strangely tranquil. Maccus studies her, this pale white child. He looks along the sharp forms of bones pinched beneath starved flesh; the ugly red of numerous wounds which fail to cripple her when they would have decimated a grown man. He stares into eyes the color of rising-sun and finds he cannot look too long, too deeply. Like the dawn of identical hue, it burns to stare longer than allowed.

“And you believe yourself to be such a person, do you.” He finally says. It is less a question and more a statement, but she answers anyway.

“I may not yet be,” she concedes, a rather humble acknowledgement, “but I will be.”

Insolent, defiant, and foolishly optimistic: isn’t she just a right little treat?


	8. Demonstrative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lena has found stable ground with the first mate (for now), but not all others are so accepting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: mild profanity and uncivilized implications.

The sword is not one of particular significance; if memory serves her (which, to date, she presumes it still does), it belonged to some unfortunate survivor found on the tide two days past. An uncouth bit of driftwood, the man refused one-hundred years’ servitude with impolite language and earned the extraction of his tongue before being tossed back to the waves from whence he came. If he did not drown immediately, Lena suspects sharks made quick work: he was bleeding profusely from the mouth, and the sea’s hunters are not known to disregard blatant invitation.

She likely would have paid no consideration to the weapon in question (might have even assumed its fate was with its master or claimed by this-or-that crewman) if it hadn’t, five minutes ago, disturbed her evening cleaning task by toppling onto her foot. The curse did not explode from her lips, but only because she was too busy biting her lips silent. Attracting attention via simple clumsiness is humiliating.

Since the damned thing decided to interfere with her tasks, Lena decides to take a closer look: decent in design (albeit not the finest bit of craftsmanship she’s seen), far heavier than any weapon she has previously handled. It certainly has a greater girth than daggers or small bits of cutlery. The hilt is thick, cold, in her hand. As little as she knows about these things, she supposes the blade balances well enough. It surprises her, a bit, to see the great length of these blades: this would not simply sink into flesh and leave a mark, but rather cleave straight through the cavern of a man’s body with little effort.

—If one were strong enough to drive such force, which she presently is not.

But she is bored, and boredom knows no bounds or restraints of common sense.

She has seen men spar before: the Master’s men, on those exceedingly rare moments when he would permit her from the confinement of four walls and instead seat her at his feet while he observed his men at a distance. Lorded upon his seat like the god he fancied himself, the Master would study each movement with great intent in pitted black eyes. He made no sound, spoke no words; the only physical motion on his part was the rasping of nails through her hair, stroking as one might a pet.

The movements of these men meant nothing to her in younger years. Here, on the Dutchman, she observes from time to time the crew taking leisure in little duels. Always one man against another, on the upper deck, with weapons of choice striking cacophony in the air. The others gather, watch for what she can only assume is entertainment, and then go about their way once it is finished. This is not a match to the death: these men cannot so easily strike each other into the grave.

(The Master’s men were not always so lucky.)

Lena hefts the weight, both hands upon the hilt, and watches iron catch diluted gold lantern-light. The reflection flashes, and suddenly she thinks of the Master’s wife.

By earliest recollection, Mistress was a woman of forty carrying the weight of seventy years in her heart: a figure of tight brow lines and dark hair perpetually drawn back far too tightly, always shrouded in a mourner’s dark cloths. Rigid and cold to most, there remained something kind in her heart for the little slave of porcelain and gold; when alone, her sharp countenance softened into something almost beautiful. Her greatest compassion was reserved for the quiet moments, when she collected Lena from the Master’s slumbering side and stole her away to a little sanctuary: there, she would bathe Lena with her own hands and speak gentle words to soothe away the vulgarity of moments earlier. She lovingly combed Lena’s mane of fire and gold, braided it with nimble fingers, and let her move about undressed without fear of assault.

_“You will be beautiful, little one.”_ She spoke such assurances, often the same over and over, until they were a kind mantra in place of ugly words. _“The gods took care in crafting one so lovely, and they hear your cries in darkness. One day, they will avenge you. They will cuts your chains and set you far from this place.”_

When the fantasy became overwhelmingly desirable, Lena remembered imploring her Mistress for greater detail; to tell more of this glorious moment, imagined only at the lowest points of a cheap existence, when freedom would be hers. Mistress would indulge her, weaving such a beautiful sequence upon the fabric of imagination. Those, and only those, were the nights to bring her peaceful dreams.

(And then it was taken away from her.)

She remembers. She remembers too well, too much. The sweep of a blade, cutting through air with a horrid hiss; ugly eruptions of sound (voices, shouting, shrieking) crackling around her; iron upon light, flashing once, twice, and then an abrupt descent—

—and it stops, quite literally, upon the handle of an axe.

If she’s flushed (and she surely must be) with embarrassment, caught in the middle of some clumsy reenactment, the shadows hide the most of it. Or so she sincerely hopes. For his part, Maccus is equally silent, even as the ringing of two weapons meeting mid-air settles. But his eyes speak for his tongue, and she isn’t sure what to make of it. He doesn’t appear nettled at her departure from manual labor, and has yet to give her the reprimand she’s come to expect. He almost looks…intrigued.

(And how is it possible for a creature so mutated, so physically distorted, to possess such eyes as he does? Those are not the eyes of a mindless beast, ravenous for its next meal, but a man. A man with soul shrouded and hidden behind secrets, carefully-constructed walls built perhaps over years or in a handful of days. Bound to serve upon a vessel of damnation, doomed to a terrible existence—yet there is life in those eyes…and it _burns_.)

“You know how to use a blade?” the inquiry comes in the same idle manner as a comment on the weather. She blinks, twice, then diverts weight to free the locked blade. Maccus obliges, or so she assumes, because the sword gives way and rests with a dull sound at her feet while his axe returns to its master’s belt.

“No,” she answers, “but I know how to be bored.”

He huffs, but without the aggravation to which she is accustomed. “This isn’t going to stop until I let you dig the grave and bury yourself, is it?”

“Likely not.” She answers. “It has been _two weeks_. Must I throw myself at your feet and beg?”

“I shouldn’t dream of such a demand.” He retorts; it strikes her, suddenly, that she is engaging in idle banter with this man. She wonders if she is doing it right, this strange practice of sparing words, then decides the first mate would take great pleasure in correcting her, should she be in error, and thus concludes she must be doing something right. Or, at least, not yet worthy of discipline. “Your pride would never recover. Similarly to your skin.”

“I’m fine—”

“—Indeed.” He sets himself at the rail, a short distance away; she catches herself staring, not in the way of inappropriate gawking but rather curiosity for the odd, ill-formed, and yet, somehow, perfect cohesion of marine mutation and the natural forms of his body. He has very long legs, built broad in the torso. She tries to imagine him in a different life, wearing human flesh, but fails.

(She can’t imagine any of them, any one of this crew, before or beyond what they have become.)

“—your little stunt with the saltwater didn’t help.” Maccus says, and she blinks, flushing slightly, to realize he never stopped talking and she hasn’t heard a word in-between. “These things require patience.”

“I do not _have_ patience.”

He gives her a look (uncalled for, she might add) which communicates quite plainly his lacking surprise to hear such a proclamation. But there isn’t an immediate retort, and his eyes fall downward in what presents as contemplation. Could he be…?

She catches her breath and holds it tight. Waiting for his next words has never seemed so daunting and thrilling a process.

“Two more weeks,” he says, at length, “and then we will revisit the issue. In the interim, you’re to keep at Clanker’s side—and do _not_ let me catch you pushing beyond what you are capable. That includes no more jaunts over the rail. If I want you to join the rest in collections, I will tell you so. Do we understand each other?”

She supposes past interactions demand further argument, but she is so relieved that the thought is a fleeting fancy before she nods eagerly. “Yes, sir.”

If he’s surprised at the immediate compliance (and he must be, even if only a bit), no such indication is present on his features. “Below deck with you, then.”

Lena nods, once more, and moves for the hatch. One foot descends the stairs when he speaks, softly, her name. It’s strange to hear anyone, let alone a man, address her by name. So accustomed is she to alternate versions of her identity that to be christened as is her right seems the exception, rather than the rule.

(But she doesn’t dislike it: the sound of her name.)

“You did well that day.”

If she smiles, wider with each downward step, he isn’t any the wiser.

***

The prospect of fourteen days has never seemed so daunting. All attempts to quash her excitement (and is the irony not great, to be so enthused in anticipation of being put to work?) fail as dawn rises at the third day. She distracts herself by running here and there, pouring all energy into the most menial task. By day’s end, she is exhausted, and while there is a sense of accomplishment to be felt, it isn’t quite the same.

After all, a slave seldom feels pride in doing nothing more than what is expected of them.

She descends into the Dutchman’s shadowed corridors, stretching stiff limbs and pleased (albeit, surprised) to feel the customary pain absent in her back, replaced with a tight sensation she supposes can be attributed to the healing process finally beginning. Perhaps this will shorten the first mate’s imposed timeline; her lack of mending has been his source of resistance thus far…if he sees—

She rounds a corner and finds an unknown object making a beeline for her head. Later, she will thank well-honed reflexes (no matter their origins) for sparing her a rather large hole in the forehead.

Her hand takes hold of the dagger, the unknown object now known, and wedges it from the corridor wall. “If you’re trying to kill me, Clanker,” she says, making sure to sound as unimpressed as humanly possible, “there are far more practical ways to do so.”

“See, boys?” he grins; the barnacles stretch oddly with such an expression, “I told ye lot—she’s got ‘er spunk right back.”

She glares at him. If he’s put off, there is no trace as he beckons her closer and simultaneously nods at the dagger in-hand. “Ye know how to use it, lass?”

It is one of the finely-crafted items unearthed days prior. She spends too much time examining it; pondering that this weapon of death fits in her grasp as though made for her hand—then she shakes her head of such thoughts and returns attention to her fellow crewman. “I know how to hold it and not fumble over movements like some schoolboy playing in the streets.”

(She hopes he’ll leave it at that, and not pursue the matter. She should have known better.)

“Aye,” Clanker nods; he props himself on a knee, one hand catching the chain-shot before it makes too adventurous a path along his hips, “but do yet know how to _use_ it?”

Her answer (whatever it might have been; she’s not entirely sure) is stolen by another voice; agitation pricks her nerves as memory identifies the speaker before she ever need see his face. “What sort of question is that?” Koleniko scoffs; as he comes alongside her, she feels his gaze wander over her back, exposed flesh, and she wishes for better covering, “Girl knows how to mend lines and fish through crates, nothing more—she’s proven as much.”

He pauses, and Lena suspects what is forthcoming. He confirms her suspicions, not even half a minute later.

“Well, perhaps that not be _all_ she knows how to do—eh, girl?”

A very slow, very deep breath keeps her poised at least a moment longer. The quiet ripple of laughter does nothing to keep her temper in check. Here, she knows, is the difference between a man like Clanker and one such as this spike-faced bastard: the former speaks with idle curiosity, invasive inquiries made once in a while; the latter…there is nothing idle or innocent about his words. He wants to rile her up, invite her temper—and why, exactly, is it of such interest to them: this idea that a thin little child could rip a man’s last breath from his throat? She will admit it is not the norm (even she is appalled at her behavior), but they have enough to amuse themselves with; why is _she_ suddenly so entertaining?

And of course, Koleniko can’t just leave well-enough alone. None of them can.

“I hear she be quite talented,” a cruel hiss wraps around his every word; he lingers at her ear, and she fights down both a repulsed shudder and the urge to slap him across the face once again, “perhaps she’ll give us a demonstration?”

Anger: it licks her veins, hot and reckless. Then, stemming from the wounds along her back, a reminder.

She exhales, slowly.

“I may not know how to use _this_ ,” she lifts the dagger quietly, between his face and hers, then tosses it to the side (in the peripheral, she glimpses Clanker catch it), then ascends her right hand in such a way that fingernails are the sole focus of such a display, “but I know how to use _these_.”

(The blood is washed away, but the infamy remains.)

She steps closer, voice barely a whisper, “Perhaps you would like a demonstration?”

If there was intended a response, she doesn’t wait for it. Any intention of sleeping is gone, not that exhaustion is gone and her blood is roused even without the expulsion of a temper. The night breeze meets her face, the scent of salty waters strangely welcome and the chill pleasant on her skin. The sea comforts her; soothes her frustrations.

(In the shadows, the gaze she knows well almost invites her attention. But he surprises her; demands no such acknowledgement, but instead disappears. She thinks to call out but does not. She thinks to seek him in the shadows, but does not.)

***

“I wish ye’d leave the lass be.” Clanker says, voice heavy, the rum changing hands for no particular reason. “She’s as much right to be here as anyone.”

Koleniko, as a general rule, has little to no real opinion of his crewmates. Those on equal rank with himself, he treats with indifference on the base assumption that they have earned their place and he hasn’t the time (nor lacking concept of self-preservation) to question the captain. Those beneath him, he may not take great pleasure in deriding but neither is he one to pass up the opportunity should it befit their insolent nature.

The girl falls into the latter category.

“Ye’ve a soft pulp of a heart.” He scoffs, “She’s weak; useless for not more than what she once was. If Maccus intends to keep the lil’ wretch, he might well make use of ‘er—not let ‘er run about like a damned bitch.”

No argument follows, nor additional commentary. The blade at his waist keeps tongues held, and his status keeps heads bowed. –Except for the girl. The wench has yet to learn her place. He had initial hopes when the first mate made a show of putting her down, as was needed. And great satisfaction had been his, watching Maccus haul her away by the scruff and send her to the Bosun’s waiting hand. If she survived enough to walk (or crawl; either was fitting), he was confident it would be with a bowed head and tamed spirit—both of which she’s in desperate need.

But no. Somehow, shamefully so, the little whore crawled under Maccus’ skin and raked her wiles into his head. He thought the first mate a stronger like than the rest, those who take notice of all that milk-white skin and a pair of legs belonging on a young colt, but given such an abrupt change in behavior he can only assume Maccus fell victim to whatever shameless seduction she conjured up in the moment. Any modicum of respect he might wrangle up for the ranking mate might yet be salvaged, if there was indication of the man tossing the wretch to the deck once in a while.

And he will not acknowledge that little display as anything more than that: a cheap act, like a whore dancing in the streets for a few coins. Fine enough: she grew a spine. He knows how to snap backbones like winter twigs. It’s one of his best specialties.

From the darkness, a hand abruptly catches him in a vice grip; the instinctual response (namely, severing the offensive limb from its root) is cut short by the first mate’s voice, hissing like a serpent ready to bite strictly for the sake of biting.

“As a matter of fact,” Maccus says, tone chilled; the moon highlights his face in a way rather unflattering, as if it could possibly be worse than the scowl twisting his misshapen mouth, “I do happen to be making use of the girl—on _my_ terms.”

The respect dwindles with such words. He pulls for freedom and finds the grip unyielding. “Then use ‘er for what little she’s good?” Koleniko returns, a scowl to match and a growl in his throat. “Waste of time, makin’ anything else of ‘er. Thought ye ‘ad better sense for it.”

“What she is or isn’t good for remains to be seen.” Maccus’ grip tightens, an unnecessary emphasis to match the forward step between them. “And it’s left up to _my_ judgment. Mine, no one else—especially not yours.”

His cheek flares: a clear demonstration of anger, of displeasure, to be handled in such a way. The first mate may be exactly that, but Koleniko has earned his rightful place and with it comes the right to not be shaken about like a damn dog. “What care have ye if I poke at the girl, eh? Don’t like others tryin’ for yer pet?”

And there it is: even in poor light, dim and broken, a flash sparking deep in dark depths—and then, gone. Maccus steps forward, face mere inches away. “Leave the girl be,” he warns, barely a breath, all-but inaudible with the waves churning so short a distance away, “or it’ll be _your_ skin on the boatswain’s whip.”

Tension coils thick and heavy between them, around them: a silent battle of pride and social standing aboard this vessel of abstract hierarchy; this place where striking out against those out-ranking others is not unheard of but rather the norm, for life is a battle of survival and the weakest fare poorly if they fail to make at least one solid blow against nameless opponents. This is known, wide-spread knowledge as deeply engrained as that of the empty fate awaiting each man who swears his soul to the _Dutchman_.

But the first mate is different from them: unwavering, resolved in the secrecy of his immediate succession to so high a standing in this hierarchy and equally satisfied in the simple fact none will ever know of it. Many have tried to pry open details, assume this or that which might be somewhat near to the truth. Koleniko is among them, for no other reason than such is how the game is played: you find the Achilles’ heel and drive your blade clean through until the mighty fall and leave their place vacant. Ripe for the seizing.

Unfortunately, as Koleniko has learned, as so many other have learned, the first mate knows this game too. And he’s yet to lose.

(Which is why this damned obsession over the milk-skinned brat evades all comprehension.)

“Do I make myself clear?” Maccus adds, chilling hiss on a chilled wind.

“…Perfectly.” It’s a reluctant submission, ground out through clenched teeth to emphasize the unwilling bow of pride, but there is no other answer to be given.

(For now.)


	9. Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm brews on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: non-sexual nudity

Five days have gone about as well as could be expected; a little better, if one appreciates the girl’s willingness to be the student, to watch and learn rather than be tossed into the throng and figure out life without direction. Maccus has observed her day and night in Clanker’s company, as commanded; she speaks little, but her eyes are ever intent and watchful. Hers is a keen mind, educated and yet seeking more knowledge with each new dawn.

The morning of this sixth day is dark; the horizon has yet to paint itself pale in the distance. He wonders if it might storm later, or perhaps in a short hour. There is no predicting such things.

He thinks of the girl a while longer; of that strangely-knowledgeable mind. It does not fit a slave. It fits a slave of men’s lust even less. She does not speak of her old master in favorable terms, and as such there is no reason to believe the man might have educated her. Maccus personally doubts the man had any use for her head at all, and the only use for her mouth to be in unmentionable acts.

There is more to this story. More secrets, protected under careful wrappings. She wears her guard gracefully, as elegant as robes of silk and velvet—but her garments are woven of steel and fire. Her eyes betray emotion, but never the full extent of such emotion. Her lips expel words borne from a hellish temper, but never is she absent the soundness of mind to reveal more than she intends. Her actions, calm and calculated or unchecked in their barbarism, still, impossibly and improbably, feel deliberate. She ripped a man’s throat out when she might otherwise have gouged his eyes, mutilated his lips and tongue: sought to torture instead of simply kill.

She is more complex than he thought.

Movement from below distracts his thoughts—yet not terribly far, for she is the source, golden hair visible in the lamps with their lingering flames. She chooses placement near one, and illuminates her face in filtered light.

—then he realizes what she’s doing.

She must take solace in the darkness; in the simple awareness that no other crewmember has yet been roused from their drunken slumber. She fears no wandering eyes and unsavory thoughts. She slips free of tattered cloth remnants and stretches limbs in a way that shouts relief. Fingers run through tangled curls, work them to whatever satisfaction can be had, and then she stands at the rail for a long moment.

Then she turns and finds him at the upper deck. He anticipates a flush of embarrassment, of frantic motions to recover herself. After all, the women of his youth, a lifetime since passed, would never have been so brazen about their bare forms. Women in London shroud themselves in more layers than a man could care to know; if there is skin left for observation, it is at the bodice—for reasons which don’t even warrant explanation.

Lena blinks, as much as he can see in such poor light, and flexes her arms once more. Her dress remains an ignored heap of dismantled fabric. Fingers reach over shoulder and drag exploratory paths across her damaged skin. The wounds look darker, and for a moment he thinks she may have inspired new blood to spill. But no rivets begin their downward paths. Instead, she flinches, soundless, and withdraws her hand for inspection—the reasons of which he cannot—

—Something has changed. Her skin is different.

And he understands.

It was never his original intention to have the boatswain’s whip be the catalyst for the obligatory changes to her person. He supposes it could be surprising, but very little surprises him these days. Even her blatant disregard for his observation of her nakedness does not entirely shock him. He has beheld her in a similar state of undress before, and while such circumstances were not of her volition, it stands to presume she does not fear him to fall tempted at the sight of her bare flesh.

(Nor would he. He prides himself on better decorum.)

Her brow is creased thick with a frown; he sees it as she turns and casts her face into the lantern’s glow. Confused. Distressed. Frightened. He understands only too well.

He thinks to approach; to speak frankly on the matter and perhaps offer some words which might console. (Or, at least, remind her that the inevitable is exactly that and fussing over it accomplishes nothing.) Then he wonders if she might take it as an insult; if she is comfortable only when there is distance between them, not close proximity.

Then he decides to stop thinking about it. He’s the first mate, and she is not.

“When did yours start?” she asks, before he fully closes the distance, and it serves him right for thinking anything could faze this child. She spread her legs for him after losing fifty strips of flesh, just to make a point (however unpalatable).

“Exact dates are meaningless.” Maccus says; to make a point of his own (however unnecessary), he keeps proximity and studies her for any discomfort. He finds none. In an abstract way, it is admirable. And her blatant disregard for propriety makes it all the easier to forget this conversation is being had while she is stark naked. “It never takes long.”

“To start,” she says, resting hands at the rail, “or to finish?”

He pauses; the elongated points of his useless left fingers prick at the arm against which they are folded. “It is never finished. Not until your debt is paid.”

The rest is unsaid, yet her expression declares she hears it all the same. Her brow settles, but her youthful features harden, even briefly, under this newfound knowledge. He wonders what she will do with it; suspects she will store it away to be considered further at a different time, where there is absolutely nothing else to ponder in that moment yet-to-come.

For now, she crouches down and clothes herself once more. He does not miss the obvious distaste as she covers herself in cloths ruined and stained with blood dried and rotting.

“Eight more days.” The girl murmurs. A tiny smile tugs at her lips, visible only in the last moment before she steps aside and disappears to the lower decks.

Eight more days.

*** 

Between a night of enjoying the rum a little too long and the fact it’s damned black as the devil’s heart in this cabin, Clanker stumbles about and knocks into a few walls before getting some concept of his bearings. The last ‘wall’ turns out to be not a wall, but the lass, now flattened to the floor and glaring up at him.

“Sorry ‘bout that, lass.” He offers a hand and pulls her upright. “Mus’ be bracin’ for a storm; sun should be up high otherwise, by this ‘ere time.”

The lass nods, dusting herself off for a brief time before huffing and abandoning the task entirely. “Why do I even bother?” she grumbles, “This horrid thing reeks. I would be better to just wander about in my skin.”

“…Well—”

“Don’t.”

“’m just saying,” he finds a corner and rests against its structure, “’s a right fine view, lass. No one would object.”

Well, actually, he can think of a few who would object: Koleniko goes straight to pot if all isn’t just so, and the captain might take issue, but the rest of this damned lot hasn’t seen a woman alive and breathing in God-only-knows and they’ve happened to snatch up a fetching specimen of the aforementioned. Maybe the past months have left her rubbed a little raw, roughed up her smooth skin, and she’s not the freshly-bathed half-pint of before, but there’s nothing about the overall packaging to complain about.

She falls silent, in such a way that he thinks she may actually be considering it. But absent an actual answer, she just sighs and shakes her head. “What will you have me learn today, Clanker?”

(She almost sounds sad. But he doesn’t ask. Women and their emotions are no waters for a simple sailor to venture.)

A bit of cold water puts his head back in order, a bite of day-old fish satisfies the belly, and finally he takes her above deck. The sun must be up there somewhere, because the clouds are pale, but they’re also thick and allow for nothing, not even the thinnest ray, to cleave through. Across a span of dark blue waves, the horizon is darker still.

The longer he stares, the darker it grows. Storm’s definitely on the horizon.

“Clanker,” the lass says, at his side with a line stretched across her lap for mending, “…when did you start looking…well, like _that_?”

He can’t even be offended at the brisk nature of such a question. “Don’t take long.” He admits; the brim of his hat flops too far into his line of sight, and he’s obliged to adjust it before continuing, “Ye don’ keep a pretty face ‘round here for long, lass. That’s jus’ how it be.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Aye.” He gestures to his face with a crooked grin. “Don’ just pop up while ye sleep.”

It’s surprising, when her left hand lifts and brushes across the mess of barnacles clinging to his face. Takes a bit of willpower to keep it together: it’s been a long while since he felt a woman’s touch, and even with weeks of scrubbing cannons and swabbing decks, hers are still the softest hands to lay on him. But she makes it easy, easy as can be, touching idly and without the sultry way, hooded eyes and coy smiles, a woman looking to do more than just touch would.

Then her hand drops, she goes back to mending her line, and he lets the subject fall to the way-side.

***

Her range of view is severely limited, but she can see enough.

The angry red color of gaping wounds, refusing to heal, is gone. The edges, previously jagged and messy, are smooth. She might otherwise believe it is all part of the healing process, if not for this skin, this skin that is not hers, creeping up from that which has been forcibly opened. Indigo blue in color, cool and slick in texture, now lies with her pale flesh natural and undisturbed: it is alien, foreign, and yet presents as though it has always been there, hidden and buried in a place so deep that only the boatswain’s lash could unearth it.

The first touch, taken in the morning darkness, was cool, almost pleasant; then she dragged in the reverse and felt the fingertip skin break. It bled only a short while, then the stinging pain was gone and a thin line of dark blue is now the only evidence left for her exploration. Whatever this is…it isn’t human, and it isn’t hers. Too heavy, chilled to the touch, slick as though embedded with sea water—it isn’t _hers_.

But…perhaps it is.

The rain beats upon the deck. Through worn planks, it leaks and pools into small puddles. Thunder cracks, loudly. She cringes.

_Fingers, dirty, grip her jaw and bring her face upward. The angle is sharp, unnatural, but she meets his dark eyes without spite or anguish. Her mind is too exhausted; her body too broken to summon any resistance. As such, she knows her gaze must betray emptiness and weariness. She is more exposed now than with physical nakedness. It is humiliating._

_“Hm,” the Master makes a thoughtful sound; his free hand combs through wet curls in perverse contradiction to the cold amusement etched across his face. “Such a pretty face…and empty eyes.”_

_His thumb presses firm between her eyebrows: wrinkling the smooth skin, smearing dirt with the touch, “Empty eyes for an empty mind.”_

_Low chuckles circle around them; his subordinates make a point to find amusement in their master’s words, no matter the circumstances. She merely blinks, determined to fight away physical exhaustion lest she taste greater humiliation by succumbing under his touch. Oh, sleep will be a sweet reprieve, so tempting in this moment, but she does not trust the Master to refrain, to not claim her again when she cannot fight him off._

_“Pity,” he whispers; leans forward to close the distance, and she smells stale tea on his breath, “One would think the gods could place thoughts inside such a head.”_

_Without warning, the hand holding her face captive changes course: tosses her away and to the floor. Dry hands, cool cloth, circle her shoulders and shield nakedness from eyes all around. This time, she smells dry mint._

_Mistress._

_“Clean her up.” The Master commands, and then he is gone. Heavy footsteps, those previously gathered to enjoy the evening’s entertainment, follow his exit. The room is empty. The only sounds remaining is Mistress’ low breaths, broken on occasion by low curses as she runs inspecting touches over bruises, bloody smears, and new marks soon to scar._

_“You did so well, little one.” She whispers, low in Lena’s ear, and brushes away damp curls. “Keep your eyes empty. Your lips tight. Let him think lies and believe lies. One day, they will birth arrogance, and it will be the stroke of his death.”_

Lena wonders if the Mistress truly believe her words; thought them a foretelling of death for the man she hated yet forcibly called husband. Part of her doubts it. The rest…the rest of her clings to a strange notion that the woman possessed more knowledge than her husband ever suspected. Mistress turned secrecy into an art, and Lena had been her willing pupil—as much as she could be.

She sighs, low and heavy, and cringes at another thunderous burst from above. She is vain of heart and mind to regret losing her beauty. Has she not learned her lesson over thirteen years? Beauty is damning. Beauty attracts attention. Beauty makes free spirits into prisoners and allows men to steal physical purity at their own whims. Beauty is a curse.

So, does she believe this flesh, this strange manifestation invading upon her body, is truly hers? Is she to believe the Bosun’s whip unveiled her true skin? Is this her true form; her inner self otherwise hidden away all these years?

(It seems impossible, ridiculous, but until she washed upon its deck, the _Dutchman_ was just as impossible: only a story of frightened sailors and superstitious fools, nothing more.)

Does this mean she is ugly? Is her true skin hideous, distorted and malformed, from all her years harboring hatred and resentment; for wishing the Master deaths slow and agonizing in nature; for speaking words and being the catalyst for the deaths of two men? Has her pretty face hidden an ugly creature?

(The tears fall, but ultimately they are indistinguishable from the rain.)

***

“Makin’ a damned fool of yerself.” Koleniko growls; he leans heavy against the wall with arms folded and scowl prominent, “Foolin’ ‘round like ye are wit’ the lil’ whelp.”

“I thought I made myself clear,” Maccus returns, tone cold, without looking up from the flint running across his favored blade, “this conversation is finished.”

(Being interrupted while sharpening his weapon-of-choice is a sure way to rile his temper, and most of the crew knows it even if they are ignorant of the reasons. This is meditation, as close as one can ever achieve, bringing his mind back to neutrality after a long day. The mundane process collects him back to order, ensures that he will emerge once more the stoic figure of immovable discipline; a threat to those who question established order. Those who cut into this time, this rare period of solace and solidarity, do not escape punishment.)

“Were we now?”

“Yes, we are.” Maccus finally lifts a sharp gaze to the Dutchman’s navigator. Koleniko has, regrettably, often been the exception to the rule: most follow the first mate’s commands with hasty obedience, but Koleniko is aggravating in his defiance; his determination to push and test the limits until something gives or he walks away with a wound to lick. “Now get out before I remove you myself.”

“Strong talk,” Koleniko says, eyes narrowing and a foul grin twisting lips, “but it don’t hide the obvious.”

Being one who prides himself on discipline, Maccus knows he ought to keep in check—or, rather, should have. But hindsight rarely being useful in the moment, he falters from his self-imposed restraint and stands, teeth bared, hand clenched tight around flint and axe alike, with rapid forward movements. “If you have something to say, get _on_ with it.”

The navigator holds his ground, visibly unbothered. “Ye think the rest don’t see it?” the grin broadens, showcasing teeth cracked and dark, “Ye be soft for the girl.”

Fire ignites his blood, but the moment of reckless behavior is passed and he is, once more, composed. It doesn’t keep an audible chill from coating his words and permeating the air between them. “Is that it, then? That’s what you all are amusing yourself with these days? Talk of how I’m going _soft_?”

(The word carries a venomous accent, and he’s pleased when Koleniko flinches.)

In the next breath, the other man regains his proverbial footing and continues without pause. “Ye threaten any makin’ a pass at ‘er. Ye keep ‘er in watch every wakin’ moment. Next ye know, it’ll be cooin’ o’er her like a right lil’ pup.” His mouth curls in a thin smirk, clearly confident in his choice of words and the ability to worm his way under carefully-constructed defenses. “She be yer pet, and ye be soft f’r ‘er.”

Soft. The word is a poisonous insult, enough to make him rapidly reexamine every moment of past interactions with his so-named pet. (And that, alone, clenches deep in his gut. Does the girl know of her christening? She must; she is too clever, too observant, to be left ignorant. She is like him, in that way: ignorance is vulnerability, and she detests being vulnerable.) Has he been too generous, allowing her this lengthy recovery? Has he used the captain’s commands to excuse away otherwise inexcusable behavior?

“Get out.” He snarls, but even without a parting argument, Koleniko leaves with satisfaction, the unspoken victor strictly by way of Maccus’ inability to immediately stand resolved and confident in his decisions of days-past.

After enough time passes, Maccus leaves the sanctity of his cabin to the rain-battered decks. Lightning crackles in the air, bright and deadly; thunder follows, bellowing across dark clouds. The crew moves as they should, securing the ship even with the knowledge no storm can harm this vessel. The girl is not among them.

Has he spoiled her? It is impossible to determine if she would consider this treatment to be favorable: knowing so little of kindness and gentility, does she even recognize a favor for what it is? She could simply assume (foul as this thought is to consider) he, the first mate, will come to collect for his favor in due time, and until then she simply has the better sense to not question—except, that is, when it comes to being put to work.

Maccus pauses; considers this facet of reality a bit more. Is there reassurance to be found in her insistence for work, for usefulness? To be sure, it is a relief from her boredom. But, were she truly aware of these supposed-favors, it stands to assume she might revel in them; grow fat and spoiled on her luxurious existence. What sense, then, is to be made of her unyielding demand to be under his tutelage (a fate for which no crewman among them would ever wish)?

He doesn’t flatter himself with the thought she might like him; he is a most disagreeable sort and doesn’t make a point to be liked in any way. There is, of course, the possibility she grew accustomed to being under the command of a tyrannical male figure, and is simply transferring her devotion from one master to the other.

Thunder erupts, much closer than before. He blinks, twice.

“Clanker!” he calls, sharply, over the roar of storm-tossed seas; it takes a moment for the sound to carry, but the named crewman follows the call as soon as it reaches his ears, “Get the girl. Now!”

No crewman is permitted to sit absent during a storm. Including _her_.


	10. Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stormy night, and its unexpected resolution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: more flashbacks mean more descriptions of rape and violence.

She was fine until the thunder: violent crack distinct against the cacophony of waves against ship. Then she falters.

The lightning is tolerable; sudden bursts of illumination against the inky canvas of clouded sky are unnerving, but silent, and in the silence such a display is almost beautiful. Spidery tendrils, blinding in intensity, crackling through darkness, lingering so close she thinks she could touch them. Might have even tried if not for the thunder: again, and again, those horrid eruptions of sound threaten her eardrums and assault her courage.

She fights in turn, to pull herself together and prove herself equally capable as the rest, not so weak as to falter in the face of a simple storm.

She tries…and fails.

The rain is a repetitive sting against her cheeks, berating her into a huddled mass against the rail. Above her, around her, the storm is relentless. She wishes for the solitude of below-decks, for a corner to bury herself in until this all passes away. But such options are not hers. The first mate (Clanker, unintentionally or otherwise, made a point of including this detail in retrieving her) commanded she be present and assist the others; to be part of this crew, to be put to work. And this is what she’s wanted, is it not? Of course it is! This is what she has begged of Maccus for days, weeks, quietly nearly months. Faltering is not an option.

“Secure that line!”

A voice—the boatswain, if she recognized correctly—breaks through the storm and stirs the tiniest ember of courage: there are still tasks to be done, and she is a part of this crew, whether they regard her as such or not. She has to pull herself together and—

“ _Step_ to it!!” the command is louder this time, and while it may not have been meant explicitly for herself, Lena forces herself off the rail and takes weighted steps toward the object of such an order: a line swaying terribly loose, whipping to and fro in the wind. What its purpose is, she hasn’t the faintest idea. But the command is to secure it, and she can do that much.

Thunder roars, suddenly seeming much too close, pounding in her ears, and her body quakes even as she grabs hold of the line. Lightning splits the sky and, for a terrible moment, it blinds her.

_“On your belly, little whore.” A shove to her shoulder; a pained gasp as wood meets bare arms and chest, “Ye know better—well, perhaps not. But soon, you will.”_

_A deadly promise, and outside the rain falls furious upon the foundations of private chambers, no empty of all persons save herself and the monster looming behind her, cruel eagerness dripping from every word._

The rope is slick in her palms and doesn’t allow for a secure grip. Her arms, already lacking strength which the others seem to have in spades, are unwilling to move in the ways which are desperately needed. The rain is distracting in the worst way: falling against her exposed back, slick and cold; biting with the sharpness of nails…of fingernails…

_…digging into her skin: her back with one hand, her neck with the other. That at her neck is the worst, pinning her face, digging deep. She feels the sting of new wounds, blood seeping, dripping down…_

—oh God, her back!

The flesh, this strange flesh, is stiff, like a horrible suit of corpse’s design. The skin is unwilling to cooperate; muscles aren’t working, flexing, like they need to be. Her arms ache, burning with exhaustion. And her hands…her hands are bleeding—

_—the blood slicks wooden planks, her hands scrambling to find purchase—anything to grab, anything at all, anything to block out the pain—without success. Laughter rings in her ears like a thousand gongs; night-chill coats her skin in a cruel reminder of her nakedness, of her vulnerability. She is exposed, bare, humiliated…and he won’t stop laughing._

She pulls and pulls, but the line won’t yield. This isn’t, can’t be, about simply securing a loose line…this one is attached to something, and whatever the ‘something’ is… _that_ is what needs securing. But…but she can’t pull it. She doesn’t have the strength, and she doesn’t even know what it is. She can’t…she can’t…

_“This is what happens when you fail, little girl! Now, **learn**!” the pain is violent, blossoms from what should be sacred and instead is now violated, exploited, for carnal delights. She’s screaming. He’s laughing. She’s bleeding…she’s bleeding, and he doesn’t care. No one ever cares. **Oh God, make it stop…!**_

One last tug, one desperate motion, and her arms give out entirely. The rope slides hot from her grip, slithered out of reach, and snaps violently into the darkness. Then something— _something_ —crashes down from heights unknown to unsuspecting crew below. Their shouts mingle with the sounds of destruction. To her ears, it is the sound of a death sentence. _Her_ death sentence.

Her knees buckle, terror and shame a potent combination, and she falls to the deck with head in hands. Blind, she merely listens and waits for the inevitable. Whether it is the captain, to declare her useless and express regret for his leniency, or the boatswain to finish his earlier work, she cannot know and isn’t sure one is less than the other. After a moment, she hears the hiss of whip slipping free of belt, and her heart briefly falters. The Bosun…but what pleas for mercy can she offer? She has failed, failed with horrid consequences, and failure carries a punishment.

“Get ‘er on feet!” the boatswain barks; behind her, the shuffling of two crewmen approach, “We’ll see if five more don’t serve a fine reminder!”

She swallows a weak sob. Five more lashes to match what she’s already endured…maybe this will finally be what takes her from this life.

Two pairs of hands take her arms, tug her once—and then another voice cuts through the crowd’s mutterings before she can be fully pulled upright. “Leave her be, _all_ of you!”

It’s scarcely to be comprehended that anyone would come to her aid now, but even less so that she would recognize the voice demanding her release as the first mate’s. Of all the crew to demand her punishment, Maccus ought to be the first. She’s begged, beseeched, and demanded exactly this opportunity from him, and this is how she repays his generosity? She doesn’t deserve—

“Oh God…” the gasp is soft, unbidden, and she hastily forces the pained whimper which follows with one hand over trembling lips. She doubts any of the crew heard her broken sound, but it matters not if they did and think less of her (as though they _could_ think less of her) for it. All she cares for, all that matters, all she sees, is a gash torn deep into the first mate’s shoulder. Otherwise dark in a light-less sky, the blood is wet under faltering candlelight, and lightning casts terrible illumination over the tight lines of his face. He’s obviously in pain, but his gaze is steady and piercing as he closes the distance between them.

One arm reaches down and pulls her upright without gentility. Though the crew around them mutters, his eyes look nowhere else but her terrified expression. Still holding her arm like a vice, Maccus pulls her much to close, and his next words, she knows, are meant for her ears even as they address the rest.

“I’ll deal with the girl myself.”

***

He speaks, after a prolonged silence which has been nearly unbearable, with the chill of a winter’s blackest night. “You failed.”

She already knows this, has berated herself with unspoken thoughts, but hearing it spoken aloud cuts deep. Likely, it would not carry this sort of shame from any other crewman, but Maccus is different. She…she had wanted to prove herself worthy of his reluctant approval. He knew this was her wish, and as such she can only assume he knows the profound effect those two words have on her now, as she kneels on his floor.

“You may have been physically present,” he continues, other unbothered by or dismissive of her silence, “but you offered nothing to the crew when you were called upon. You caused damage both to the ship and your crewmates. You failed to perform as a sailor and instead became a weak link in the necessary chain of success and accomplishment.”

Against her pride (what little remains), tears sting her eyes and shame colors her cheeks. A weak link…there is no greater insult, no crueler reprimand, especially from him. She wishes he would just strike her, beat her; such would be more tolerable than more words.

His pacing, previously unceasing, stops directly in front of her. Tears blur details, but she sees his shadow; feels him looming over her like the storm still raging outside. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Her head is heavy, as uncooperative as her limbs and muscles proved earlier, but she slowly obeys. Her gaze lifts to meet his, and her stomach clenches at the disappointment clouding his expression: disgust, guilt, everything a potent mixture both burning her core and chilling her blood. She feels sick. She feels broken. She’s confused. Never before has she been so affected by man’s disappointment. There have been moments when certain expectations were not met, but she never cared. Only anger and hate were known in those times since-passed, and now she’s on her knees with shamed tears barely contained. It doesn’t make any sense that she should feel such things.

…it doesn’t make any sense…

“Why did you send for me?”

He blinks, ironclad countenance briefly shaken, then his scowl resumes. “What?”

“Why did you send for me?” she repeats, fisting hands in the soaked folds of her dress (she wonders, idly, if the rain might have salvaged them from blood stains). “The fourteen days have no run their course. It…it’s too early.”

His scowl, if possible, deepens. “I don’t need to explain myself to a little girl.”

That startles her, then angers her. They have moved past the days of him dismissing her passed solely on age, or appearance, or whatever it was that ever made him consider her a child when she is anything but. Against the advising of skin which still bears damage from her last display of anger-driven defiance, she stands up. “For weeks, you have refused my every request to do the most menial task, and now…now you toss me into man’s labor without warning, and without reason—”

“—Neither of which I am required to provide you!” Maccus snarls, leaning down to put his face (and those deadly teeth) very close to hers. Still, she doesn’t waver. It is fortunate that the novelty of his ruined features has since worn off, or she likely would be scared senseless. “Now, if you are quite done, get out.”

“No.” she says; for the second time, she clearly surprises him (which, honestly, she shouldn’t; he’s more than acquainted with her defiant nature by now…perhaps her more recent demonstrations of compliance made him believe she had moved past her combative mannerisms). “I’m not going anywhere until you explain such a radical change of mind.”

“Allow me to explain something to you,” he says, in the sort of tone which precedes a scolding, “as the first mate, it is my prerogative to change my mind when I what, with regard to whichever matters I see fit, and it is not the right of any crew member aboard this ship to be informed of, or _approve of_ , any alteration to a previously-formed decision!”

“Then you should not expect anyone to respect you as a figure of authority!” she returns, matching him with a forward shift. “If you are expressly inconsistent and unreliable, then expect your subordinates to be jerked back and forth like mindless puppets, where is the respect to be earned?”

“You have no desire to respect me—by your own admission!”

“That was before!” she raises her voice with another forward step, “Before I saw something in you that faintly resembled humanity. Before you held me and cleaned my wounds! Has it once occurred to you that no one ever has ever shown that kind of tenderness towards me?”

“There is no place for tenderness here!” he grabs her arm, in the same manner as before, and jerks her closer than before. “My display was nothing more than an attempt to resurrect you and thus abide by the captain’s orders. Nothing more, and certainly nothing like your juvenile fantasies of kindness!”

If he hoped to wound her (and, doubtless, such was exactly his intent), it doesn’t work. “You’re lying.” She whispers, with unwavering certainty. “And you’re an idiot. I did not say _you_ held tender emotions toward me. I said your _actions_ were the first thing that ever felt like tenderness to me.”

He looks fit to slap her across the face for her unflattering christening of his intelligence. Her eyes drop from his furious expression to the crusting blood of his wound. In the glow of lanterns, two on each wall, its severity becomes more obvious. “You need to tend to your injury.” She says, quietly.

He growls, then shoves her free. “Get out.”

“No.” she says, again, and closes the distance once more. “Your pride caused this damage as much as my failure. I don’t know who (though I have my suspicions) but someone made you change your mind. You, the great and mighty first mate, would never second-guess your own decisions, so confident are you in their perfection—unless the right words were spoken, offended your pride, and caused you to reconsider.”

“Do _not_ ,” his voice is a dangerous hiss, “stand there and presume to know the first thing about me.”

“It hurts your pride even more, does it not?” she retorts, “That a little girl can read you where others cannot.”

His arm snaps back, hand at the ready, and she erases all remaining space between them. “Go on.” She says, each word a tight snap of teeth and breath. “Do it.”

His hand does fall, a wind churned between palm and cheek, but the blow does not land on her face. Unexpectedly, fingers tangle in her curls and pull, such that her neck turns, exposed, and in the split moment before the touch of his other hand, she realizes what he’s looking at.

Five identical scars: broken crescent in shape, scattered across the width of her nape. He touches them with the firm brush of his thumb, eyes examining for a silent beat, then he releases her. There is no explanation for such an abrupt series of decisions, and consequent movements, but she doesn’t ask for one.

“Let me help you.” She says, looking only at his injury. “Unless you propose to make a mess of it yourself.”

His scowl isn’t completely gone, but acquiescence comes in the slow descent of his body to the bed. She follows, lowering to bended knee and tearing stripes from her skirt in the process. There is no way to clean the wound, as he did for hers, but the cloth will prevent him from bleeding through the night. A temporary mending; it isn’t much, but it’s something.

(She is left with much less skirt, after obtaining enough cloth to cover the wound; perhaps this will allow for easier movement, particularly when she’s crawling on hand and knee to scrub a deck.)

She can feel his eyes on her, even from the peripheral. For once, she doesn’t feel as though he’s looking down as he might an insolent child. What, exactly, she feels in his gaze…she isn’t sure. And she doesn’t take the time to think about it further.

“That should do for now.” her hands drop from his shoulder in the same breath as she stands. “It will need to be cleaned in the morning…but you already know that. So…so then,” she’s nervous; why is she suddenly nervous? “I…I’ll just—”

“Lena,” she forces herself to meet his eye again, both wary of and confused by the way he speaks her name; it is not tender, or kind, but the fact he called her by name makes a difference, the kind which she knows he doesn’t want to acknowledge and she’s afraid to consider beyond the moment, “thank you.”

She blinks, twice. Looks at him, more intently this time, to be sure some absurd slip of lucidity didn’t just befall her. Did he just speak words of gratitude? Surely not…but she saw his lips move, and it was his voice that spoke…!

(This isn’t to suggest it was some gentle sentiment, or that he sounded anything but reluctant to offer such words, but still…he said them.)

“You’re welcome…sir.”


	11. Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Change is in the air.

A low whistle expels and makes its auditory mark before lost to the passing breeze; its maker shifts slightly at the _Dutchman_ ’s rail with a shaking head, “Now, dat be a real mess dere, mark me words.” A face, half-consumed by a large shell of unknown color and heavily splattered with shells, looks down to the pale-skinned female beside him, “Take note, lil’ one: dat be why ye don’t try for wrestlin’ de hurricane. Ye never comes out on top.”

In the process of gathering her hair into a braid, Lena pauses long enough to refocus attention outward to the reef. The ship is a sore sight: multiple breaks left gaping holes scattered along the starboard; the rest is mounted upon the reed at an awkward angle; sails hang ripped, disconnected from their original posts and trail along the deck like bloodstains. Last night’s storm was unforgiving to this vessel; to see the proof of such ferocity leaves her to briefly marvel the _Dutchman_ bears only minor damage.

“Think there be any left on that mess?” Clanker’s question is idle, in the tone of one who doesn’t care much if the answer might be in the affirmative. Hadras’ brow lifts, heavy with skepticism, in place of any verbal reply. Lena straightens up and catches hold of a line.

“One way to find out.” She flashes them both a brief smile (an expression she’s worn so infrequently that it feels almost stiff on her face, now) and pushes off the rail. In the aftermath of storms, the air seems clear and fresh; it flutters across her face and tussles strands free of loose confines. It fills her with a sense of freedom, to match the strange giddiness bubbling low in her belly. Its origins, she can only imagine.

The rail is broken thoroughly, likely by a wave, so she kicks her legs mid-air for one final push of leverage; it works, and she settles on the splintered deck with relative grace. A short distance away, one sail hangs particularly weary, draping low as some obscure veil hiding whatever lies beyond its barrier. Her steps are cautious, mindful of the planks creaking threateningly under new weight. Ears wary of any sound – stifled breaths, trembling limbs, scuffling motions – and hearing nothing, she extends a hand and pushes the cloth aside.

Behind her, Hadras arrives on deck and promptly stumbles over a broken plank. Clanker announces himself next, muttering this-and-that while hauling the other crewman to his feet. Lena’s expression does not share in any humor of the moment, as she turns to face the other two.

“The boats are gone.” She says. “Whoever survived has already abandoned ship.”

“At least dey ‘ad dat good sense.” Hadras mumbles, adjusting his head from an awkward left-angle, “Better for dem, had de captain possessed it too.”

“Don’t matter, now.” Clanker says, now serious and focused on the tasks to be had. “Let’s have a look around…might still be somethin’ of use.”

Lena chooses independent motivation over being commanded in one task or another; there’s a large hole plunged in the ship’s center, and below, the source: a large section of the reef erupting through planks. Kneeling beside it, she can see the lower deck otherwise intact. Without a need to actually find stairs, she fits hands around the broken edge and drops herself down below.

Water laps at her ankles, soft and gentle when last night, it was anything but. Around her, a section of corridors branch to three available routes; all of them lead to storage rooms, wherein their contents have either been damaged or unceremoniously tossed out of their confines. A quick glance confirms this ship to have been a merchant vessel, but not for carrying weapons. This was a ship carrying spices, and linens, and fine things. Things which are of no use to the captain.

Still…it wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look.

She slips a hand into one crate, chosen at random, and withdraws the heavy silk of a gown, deep purple, with pale lace trimming a plunging neckline and full sleeves. Small pearls adorn hemlines and make a pattern along the bodice. This is a gown for some woman of nobility or regal upbringing, a world apart from the red, black, and gold garments woven for the Master’s harem. An item such as this would have no place in that world, any more than it does here. Still, she drags it from the crate and hefts it against her frame. Against the far wall was a large mirror; it was poorly wrapped to begin with and the storm finished the job. But the reflective glass is clear enough for her to take a good look.

The dress is far too large for her, designed for someone taller and more endowed, but tucking the cloth around her provided a momentary illusion which made it look as though she could wear it in later years.

“Me thinks ye should keep it, lass.” Clanker’s voice startles her slightly, but his expression is amused rather than displeased, considering she is playing in silks and ridiculous dreams, “The color bring out yer eyes.”

“Right…she rolls her eyes, “I will keep it, wear it, and then make you all tea and crumpets every night.”

“It’d be a change o’ pace.” He notes with a chuckle, then steps out of the room to leave her alone again. A moment more passes in silence, then she drops the gown back in its crate.

It would never have fit her.

***

Down the second corridor, she finds more linens. Unlike the elegant gowns from before, these are simpler in design, though still of fine quality. She finds the white hue not quite to her taste, but the items are clean and she’s grown desperate for a replacement to this horrid reminder of the Master. She rifles through crates, one after another, until she finds an item which will fit well enough. Its construction reminds her of the plain gowns worn by the Master’s concubines, intended to showcase the intimacy of naked arms.

This garment offers more; not only are her arms left exposed, but the bodice is a snug fit and swells her breasts above the cut of cloth. There is a fleeting moment wherein she is uncomfortable with this fact, but quickly decides it doesn’t matter. The gown is soft and clean, its skirts loose and light, and the fabric is blessed relief on her damaged skin; she’ll simply keep her head down and ignore any commentary the crew might (and is sure to) have.

Finally, the third corridor: this one is not made for the storage of goods, but for housing two separate rooms. She checks the smaller room – likely the first mate’s cabin – first, in the event of finding anything or anyone of use; it’s empty, and so she turns attention to the intricately-designed set of doors, behind which the captain’s quarters reside. It’s a place of polished floors and sturdy shelves and a sprawling desk against expansive windows; all of it, uniform in color and clearly designed with ideas of both luxury and privacy. The shelves are lined with books – so many books! – which a closer inspection declares to have been read at least once, if not more. Whatever sense the captain may or may not have possessed in steering his ship through a hurricane, he was not an ignorant man in the way of knowledge.

So far as Lena remembers, knowledge was considered by the Master to ruin one whose only purpose was whatever he designated it to be. This isn’t to suggest the Master was a learned man, but what few books he did possess were always locked away behind a room to which she’d possessed no access. She had offered no protests, as books would only have served her the purpose of distraction.

But, as with many things, her Mistress defied wishes for the pale-skinned whore to remain ignorant. She herself was not exceptionally educated, struggling over the same words she sought to teach; even so, some of Lena’s most treasured memories are those spent bent over books by candlelight, speaking in hushed tones to evade discovery. She remembers, now, as she trails fingertips over the leather-bound spines, the day she surpassed the Mistress in their lessons: reading an entire section of text without flaw and little hesitation.

_“These things, you must hold to dearly, and never sacrifice.”_ The Mistress declared, while she settled Lena into bed that night. _“Focus on your studies, Lena. He can take your body, but your mind, he cannot take from you. Hold it sacred, when he has left you nothing else.”_

Down the hallway, Hadras is calling: “Up on deck, lil’ one! De captain be waitin’!”

She offers the bookshelves one last glance, then closes the doors behind her.

***

Despite the copious amounts of rum coursing through their collective veins, it would chase a lie to say the crew’s bewildered attention was not on Lena as she strode across the deck, head held high and arms full of clean linens (a final salvage from the merchant trader), and slipped into the shadows which overcast the first mate’s cabin door.

Here, she pauses a moment – not entirely for hesitation, but for lacking knowledge of proper mannerisms when it came to seeking entering into private quarters – then finally settles on a series of sharp raps against the door.

A pause follows, without sound from within, before the door opens and the first mate fills its threshold. His eyes drop to the linens in her arms, and while his mouth locks in a grimace, Lena considers it a victory when he doesn’t tell her off, but instead turns and returns inside his cabin without closing the door behind him. 

(Perhaps not a gentleman’s way of inviting her to enter, but she hasn’t much experience with that sort to know the difference.) 

She carefully sets the linens across his bed. In addition to their presence, she also carried a ragged (but fairly clean) bit of cloth and a small bowl. She departs his cabin once more to fill its depths with water (again, with the crew’s eyes following her every step) and upon return, closes the door with a bit of finality.

Now, Maccus elects to speak. “I don’t need a nursemaid.”

“Then consider this an act of charity from the goodness of my heart.” Lena replies briskly, “Sit, if you please.”

He makes a face, but complies – though not without another pause, during which she’s certain he is trying to decide if this is all worth the blow to his pride. Apparently, the discomfort of his injury wins out. As she slowly withdraws the old bandages away, the truth of that becomes evident.

The first contact of the water to his gaping wound earns a tight flex of muscles and the clenching of his jaw. He bites himself in the act, and spits the blood out with a prominent scowl. Then again, he’s always scowling. She is hard-pressed to even imagine a smile from him.

“I see you salvaged something for yourself.” He says; she wonders if the silence is uncomfortable for him, and this is his way of breaking it – even when it means making conversation.

“I don’t much care for reeking of a rotted corpse.” She answers, willing to humor him if it means he can be distracted from the work she’s doing on his shoulder. He offers a low huff which almost sounds amused, but she shan’t swear to this man being so easily entertained by a little quip.

The silence stretches only a moment more, before it is broken again, this time of her doing. “I just realized,” she keeps her tone soft, “I never apologized.”

“For what? This?” he vaguely gestures to his injured shoulder with the other hand. His tone masks the discomfort he has to be feeling, impressively so, but she isn’t fooled. He isn’t as impassive about this injury as he’d like to seem.

Nonetheless.

“For failing you.” She says; her fingers wipe at the crusted blood and sea-grime with the rag, rinsing it repeatedly in the bowl as the water steadily turns a murky shade. “You called upon me to prove my worth to this crew, and I failed to do so.”

In place of the quick reply she expected, which he always seems to have, Maccus falls silent: a pause which, on his part, feels…contemplative. As though she just gave him something to sincerely consider, instead of make a snap judgment upon. It is surprising, but she says nothing more. Her hands continue cleaning the wound a short moment more, then she takes the salvaged linens and begins tearing long strips from them, as she previously did her skirt.

Idly, she finds herself admiring the way such stark white cloth contrasts his skin.

“It is exceptionally easy to forget how young you are.” Maccus finally declares; with the words spoken, her hands falter, briefly, then resume drawing the cloth strips across his shoulder and chest (it is pleasing, when he compliantly lifts his arm, that the cloth might be drawn beneath the limb, without a spoken request from her). “You don’t look it, and most days you certainly don’t act it.”

“I suppose it’s easy to not behave as a child,” Lena answers, “when I never really was one.”

He makes a non-committal sound which vaguely resembles agreement. “…You asked, previously, why the Master’s wife took such an interest in me.” she hesitates, considering her thoughts, before continuing, “…Do you still want to know why?”

“Reveal your secrets as you wish.” He says; the tone isn’t readily inviting, but neither does it outright dismiss the idea – which, in and of itself, suggests a more intimate affair than is appropriate. Still…she can’t help but feel this man knows the way of secrets: that they are as much a private blessing as a cursed burden.

“The truth is, I don’t honestly know her motivations.” Her limited knowledge of medicine and healing (‘limited’ being a generous overstatement, itself) says he should probably immobilize the attached arm until his shoulder is fully healed, but she possesses enough good sense to not suggest it. The best she can do is secure bandages around both sides of his chest, to cover as much of the wound as possible and hope the linens will protect him. “I can only guess.”

“And were you to guess in hindsight, what conclusions would you reach?”

Not for the first time, she takes note of his speech patterns; it is a jarring contrast to the others, and even surpasses her own – something which, she’s always known, set her apart from the Master’s harem. Maccus most certainly was educated in his youth, in a past life she can’t imagine him possessing but knows he must have; combined with his militant mannerisms, the likes of which even outreach the highest standards set for a first mate, make her think he was born into wealth and privilege. He simply can’t be a common sailor.

She blinks; refocuses on the question. “I believe there was a sense of vengeance against her husband: making his favored whore into something besides an empty-headed puppet.” She sits up on her knees, as high as possible, to reach the necessary angle across his back. “But I cannot think she did not feel genuine affection for me. If she simply sought to manipulate me against her husband, there was no need for her to confide in me as she did.”

“Replacing the daughter she lost?”

“Yes, I’m sure she was.” Lena checks the bandages once more, then sits back and lets hands fall neatly into her lap. “But in her heart, she must have known I would never truly replace what was taken. Still…she was the first in that miserable place to show me kindness. For that, I choose to not question her motives.”

“What became of her?”

She pauses, eyes falling to the floor. “She died.”

She waits for the obligatory second question, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a different inquiry comes, and she is now forced to consider he actually wants to know these details, since her work is done and conversation no longer serves as a necessary distraction. “She is the one who educated you?”

“As well as she knew how.” Lena answers, shifting to a more comfortable position and folding an arm at the mattress edge. “She was not herself well-taught, but I was, in her assessment, a quick learner. I’m certain there are members of this crew who would beg to differ otherwise.”

“Insubordination and incessant stubbornness make you difficult.” Maccus says, shifting leaning weight to another arm. “Such traits don’t make you a slow learner.”

Lena blinks, twice, then lifts her eyebrows to match a tiny smile. “Was that a compliment?”

“A stated fact, based on experience and observation.” He replies, tone brisk and absent any amusement. “Interpret it as you like.”

She bites her lip, lest the smile dare grow even a fraction more, and patiently waits for him to continue. It takes a minute, maybe more, while he sits in careful consideration, then he straightens posture (again, she thinks of the rigidity with which the Master presented himself, but not in arrogance; rather, this seems a learned instinct, something which became so innate that even now, when Maccus doesn’t have explicit need for it, he can’t help but maintain old habits) and looks down at her. “Did she teach you to read and write?”

“She taught me to read, a little; books were not readily accessible. Most of my educated speech comes from listening to the Master and his crew speak amongst themselves, and silently correcting their butchery of basic grammar.” She wouldn’t dare say as much, but she thinks the corner of his mouth twitches up, just a bit, as if amused by her words. “Truthfully…I don’t know why I am so well-spoken. It just…came to me, over the years.”

“But you don’t know how to write?”

“I’ve never tried.” Her eyebrows pucker in a small frown. “And it never seemed of much use.”

“It likely will be of no use to you now.” he admits, shifting weight again (and looking displeased that he is required to do so), then stands. Her frown deepens, confused; why bother asking about something so trivial if he wasn’t going to make a final decision on the matter? “But there are other skills which you have yet to learn, and are of greater value.”

The frown disappears, her ears perking up. “Then…the days have run their course?”

“You were sent to perform a simple task this morning and you managed to prove yourself competent.” She’ll ignore the backhanded insult in favor of what lies within his words. “Tomorrow you will have a chance to do so again.”

“And you will teach me?” she is quite aware no person in their right mind would be so jovial at the prospect of training under this man’s tutelage, but seeing as her own state of sanity is entirely dependent on the day, it doesn’t really matter.

He gives her a look; it settles neatly somewhere between ‘exasperated’ and ‘resigned to woeful circumstances’. “Per the captain’s orders, and your imbecilic request,” he says, slowly, “yes. As such, you will spend the remainder of this evening in careful reflection of your own assessment of my character, and be prepared to learn from every mistake which will inevitably made. I will not tolerate the same failure twice. Do I make myself clear?”

“Inescapably.” She says, with eyes bright and a smile fighting for placement on her lips.

“Then why are you still standing here?”

“I’m not.” She answers, in the same breath as she turns (twirls, actually) and sees herself out the door.


End file.
